Interwoven: The Seamstress and the Lovable Stray
by Katinka31
Summary: Britain's last Weaver struggles to finish her first Invisibility Cloak during the year of the Triwizard Tournament. Along the way, she happens to befriend a certain canine that's been lolling about Hogsmeade. (UPDATED JUNE 2004)
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1**   
  
_A/N: The following differs somewhat from the original "Interwoven", which was posted in 2002. That story was my first fanfic – definitely a "learning curve" experience. As time went on, I found myself really wanting to revisit it, not so much to change the plot, but to polish up the writing, clarify some character motivations, correct some embarrassing gaffes, and incorporate a few tidbits from OotP. I owe a huge debt of gratitude to all the thoughtful reviewers and betas who have helped me with this story, both then and now. I hope you enjoy the results!_   
  
"Now, please turn a fraction to your left…yes, now back a bit to your right…yes…there, there, and there. Done!"   
  
She circled the pedestal one last time, scanning for any loose threads. Locating an errant few, she clipped and tied them with a brisk wand wave. Her customer shifted in impatience, of which she seemed blithely unaware. If he had been more cooperative, they could have had this over and done with thirty minutes ago. But unfortunately for the manager of Gladrags Wizardwear in Hogsmeade, the more time she spent currying favour with Draco Malfoy, the better her purposes would ultimately be served. Drat.   
  
"You've made an excellent choice, Mr. Malfoy," she said cheerily, eying the hem of the fine black robes. "The sheen of this fabric is unparalleled, and I dare say the young witches of Hogwarts will find them rather pleasant, too."   
  
The young man looked down at her, annoyance in his pale eyes. "I didn't ask your opinion," he snapped.   
  
"Of course, Mr. Malfoy. My apologies," she replied evenly, removing the robes from his shoulders and turning to place them in the embossed Gladrags box that hovered behind her. Draco had already made it quite clear that he preferred Madam Malkin's workmanship and was only patronizing her shop out of absolute necessity. Yet despite his rudeness, she noticed that he did look about the shop to gauge whether other patrons had noticed the compliment from a pretty witch twice his age.   
  
After conjuring up a length of glossy gold cord, which twirled in mid-air to tie the parcel shut, she turned to the young man once more.   
  
"May I ask, Mr. Malfoy, why you and your associates – " she glanced at the bulky figures of Vincent Crabbe and Gregory Goyle, who were edging each other for space on a nearby chaise lounge, " – are in Hogsmeade today? I understood the students wouldn't be visiting until later this month."   
  
Draco puffed his chest out slightly, the corners of his thin mouth twisting into a delighted sneer. "It's not a Hogsmeade weekend for _every_ student. I received special permission from Professor Snape to come, as I had personal affairs to see to in town." He looked down at his robes, then over to a pile of parcels waiting near Crabbe and Goyle. "Potter and his mangy lot are probably sitting back at the school, wondering what to do with their pathetic lives," he added under his breath. "This will show Krum who's worth keeping company with at Hogwarts."   
  
She raised her eyebrows, nodding her head as if to acknowledge the great goodness of Professor Snape, yet wondering all the while if a swift elbow would be sufficient to knock Draco off the pedestal. Stifling the urge, she concluded that the pedestal was probably not high to do any significant damage.   
  
_This will not do…patience, patience. You may have to deal with his father someday._   
  
To distract herself from the unpleasantness of Draco's company, she gathered up the entirety of his Gladrags purchases and began to carry them to the front counter. He had frequented the shop a few times during the previous school year, but had always been helped by another assistant. Today, he had requested – no, _demanded_ – that the head seamstress accommodate him.   
  
"I'll just place these aside, shall I? Please allow me a moment to make a note of your measurements."   
  
Draco shrugged, not even looking at her.   
  
When she returned, he was still standing on the pedestal, appraising his reflection in the floor-to-ceiling mirror. When he finished preening his sleek, silver-blond hair, she spoke again.   
  
"If I may, Mr. Malfoy, I'd like to show you a new selection of clasps we've just received from our Paris shop." She paused slightly, before continuing on. "They're not kept in the general display case, but in the back showroom that we reserve for our finer clientele." She placing a delicate, yet deliberate emphasis on the final words.   
  
Draco certainly seemed interested now. He looked back at his companions, who seemed to be engrossed in their shoelaces. "Crabbe. Goyle. Wait."   
  
He stepped off the pedestal and passed through the black curtain that she drew aside. Crabbe and Goyle grunted in unison, and then shifted their eyes to gawp at the photos of Gladrags spokeswitches that decorated the shop walls. Celestina Warbeck did not seem to appreciate the attention, as she quickly darted behind her gleaming frame.   
  
Entering the back showroom, she pulled a burnished wood box down from a shelf and opened it on the table before her. Draco leaned greedily over the display. Nestled in the box's rich, velvet interior were several ornate robe clasps, each obviously very expensive. She took in his reaction with discreet interest.   
  
_He looks as though he's in Honeydukes, buying the sweets the other students can't afford, yet which he doesn't even really want._   
  
Draco fingers ran over the clasps. He paused over an elegant platinum piece formed into the monogram "W."   
  
"No need for that initial," he murmured. "I'll be a Hufflepuff the day that ratty, overgrown, Muggle-loving family manages to have more than two Galleons to its name."   
  
Her previous urge to elbow him had passed, but it resurfaced again in a desire to kick him in the shin. She had been a member of Hufflepuff House many years ago. And she was quite fond of Arthur and Molly Weasley's family, no doubt the intended recipient of his slight. Still, she continued to smile pleasantly, her expression unruffled. She contented herself instead by imagining the box crashing shut on the pale fingers that were now fingering a silver serpent. The creature's diamond eyes glinted as Draco turned the clasp back and forth in the lamplight.   
  
"That piece is magnificently cast, is it not?" she noted. "Several of our distinguished families have purchased this artisan's work. His clasps make wonderful heirlooms for those who honor Slytherin house. The purity of the silver accounts for their beauty and value."   
  
Draco apparently agreed, as he set the serpent aside. He scanned the display again, choosing an emerald-studded letter "M." She repented briefly of her previous violent impulses when he selected a beautifully carved mother-of-pearl piece, presumably for his mother.   
  
If his gaze softened while choosing the final clasp, it soon returned to its usual state of overall disdain. "That will be all. You may prepare my bill."   
  
_How very kind of you, Master Malfoy._   
  
Her eyebrows rose slightly at Draco's condescension, but she nodded her head and closed the box, all without bodily harm to her customer. Without another word, she followed him back through the curtain and into the main showroom again.   
  
After wrapping the clasps in velvet squares and placing them in individual polished cases (across which the words "Compliments of Gladrags Wizardwear" scrolled in continuous gold script), she procured a narrow piece of parchment and a peacock quill from under the counter and began to tally his bill.   
  
The total ended up to be quite a tidy sum with the clasps, yet Draco did not seem to notice. Nor did his moneybag seem much lighter after he tossed _(You might have just handed them to me, Draco!)_ a good number of gold Galleons onto the counter. After stooping to retrieve two coins that had rolled onto the floor, she handed Draco his change.   
  
"Keep it," he said shortly. "I don't bother with Sickles and Knuts."   
  
She willed herself to beam at his pale, angular face, acknowledging his magnanimity. "Enjoy your purchases, Mr. Malfoy, and please visit us again."   
  
Draco looked up from his moneybag and met her eye.   
  
"I may."   
  
Moving across the showroom and shoving the door aside, he strode out of Gladrags. The door swung briskly shut behind him, rattling a small brass plaque that read, "Abigail Loomis, General Manager." After only two steps he stopped, swore in exasperation, and rapped sharply on the windowpane. Abby ducked her head to stifle a giggle.   
  
Crabbe and Goyle had missed their cue to leave, having been engrossed in a photograph of Quidditch star Meaghan McCormack (or her foot, rather – all that she had allowed them to see). Knocking heads more than once, they hurriedly gathered Draco's parcels and lumbered from the showroom, their arms laden with the day's shopping.   
  
Abby watched the odd trio head down the High Street and leave her view before she dared a breath of mixed frustration and relief. She had dealt with all sorts of customers over the last eighteen years, and she usually managed to present a good-natured face, but Draco Malfoy certainly did test one's patience. She must keep herself in better check, she thought – one day soon, she hoped to meet the elder Mr. Malfoy.   
  
_Yes, dear Draco, do come again. And please, tell your father about the properly deferential Gladrags witch and her appreciation for pureblood lineage._   
  
The late October evening had a brisk chill. Abby pulled her wrap more tightly about her shoulders and quickened her steps. She had just locked up the shop, and she relished the thought of a warm butterbeer before the walk home. Besides that, she had been so occupied with the fall merchandise displays that she had not had a proper moment to speak with Madam Rosmerta for weeks. The crowd that had descended on Hogsmeade for the Triwizard Tournament was keeping all shopkeepers busier than usual. Raucous laughter from inside The Three Broomsticks told her Rosmerta might well be occupied tonight, but she thought she would try all the same.   
  
Abby slipped through the pub door and wove her way through the boisterous crowd to the end of the bar. Gathering up the skirts of her well-made burgundy robes, she lit on a barstool and watched with admiration as her friend went about her duties. With seeming ease, Rosmerta was managing to see to seven full, levitating tankards and one noticeably soused bloke, whom she nudged out the pub door with a burst of red wand sparks. Rosmerta caught Abby's eye and winked merrily. After delivering the tankards, she made her way down to Abby.   
  
"All right there, Miss Loomis? A butterbeer for you tonight?"   
  
"Yes, please. I had one of those sorts of days today." She laughed, pausing to look around at the crowd that Rosmerta dealt with daily. "I'm sure there's not much reason for you to commiserate with me, though."   
  
Rosmerta smiled, giving her left earring an absentminded tug. Abby nodded imperceptibly, taking in the signal.   
  
_My fire – nine tonight._   
  
She laughed again, twisting the gold bracelet on her left wrist. "Well, we do what we can, don't we? The joys of business…"   
  
Rosmerta chuckled and placed an open, froth-topped bottle before Abby. "Drink up, dear – you've got another day of it tomorrow. I'll send something home with you from the kitchen." She swished off, gaily humming a wizard folksong while levitating a madly spinning bottle of Ogden's Old Firewhisky in the air above her.   
  
Abby was truly enjoying her butterbeer when a loutish voice from a nearby table interrupted what little reverie she could find in the pub.   
  
"You gents see that Gladrags witch over there? There, at th'end of the bar? Reckon she'd like a bit o' company?"   
  
_Bugger. Not again. _  
  
The speaker pushed back his chair and swaggered over from his table – whether the swagger came from bravado or inebriation, she could not tell – and perched himself on the neighboring stool.   
  
"Evenin', miss!" he greeted her. She smiled wanly in return, belied only by her tight clutch on the bottle of butterbeer.   
  
"Not the chatty type, are yeh? S'okay, miss." He leaned in closer, the stench of his breath making her stomach turn. Definitely inebriation. He grinned back at his companions. "Maybe we can have us a talk, you and me, 'bout some _alterations_ I'll be needin'…"   
  
Abby kept her face impassive, but inwardly, she seethed with anger and revulsion. This had happened before, more times than she cared to count.   
  
_I'll help you in the shop, but I'm not bloody well about to cater to any **other** need you might have, you nasty – _  
  
Biting her tongue, she kept her gaze on her drink and found herself desperately wanting, for the second time today, to injure another person. She might have to settle for a vicious Pinprick Hex. It started to become a losing battle, and she sighed in relief when the bright red silk of Rosmerta's robes came into view again.   
  
"Might I suggest you leave the lady be, Lawson? She's a valued customer, unlike yourself, and I'd like her to enjoy her drink in peace. All right now, off with you…" Rosmerta fixed her gaze on the offender and smiled broadly, her gold bracelets rattling as she made slight shooing motions with her hand. Lawson, struck dumb by the undiluted effect of the landlady's charms, managed a lop-sided grin before he turned around and staggered back to his rowdy chums. Rosmerta watched his retreat with amusement.   
  
"'Tis sad, all that a woman can do just by smiling at the poor chaps," she said. "He shouldn't bother you anymore, dearie. He'd better not, not unless he fancies a drop of Loo-Lingering Liquid in his next drink."   
  
Abby swallowed quickly, to avoid spraying Rosmerta's clean counter with a mouthful of butterbeer. She lifted an eyebrow.   
  
"Sorry?"   
  
Rosmerta's bright eyes twinkled. "Trust me, you'd rather not know. It's something those Weasley lads brought by."   
  
Ah yes, the Weasley twins. Abby snickered. She had never known their brother Percy well, but Bill and Charlie had come by Gladrags often enough during their Hogwarts days. Even their antics, impressive as they had been, paled next to the sheer magnitude of misbehavior generated by Fred and George. The twins had even owled her earlier in the week, asking if she knew how to make robes fire-repellent. She did, but felt certain that the Hogwarts faculty would not care for the boys to possess that information.   
  
Rosmerta continued talking, her eyes scanning The Three Broomsticks' many booths and tables for empty glasses. "It looks rather nasty, but it does wonders for ridding the room of the belligerent ones…" Her voice trailed off as a booming growl from across the room called for several more pints of mulled mead.   
  
Abby gave an appreciative nod, and the landlady left once more. Rosmerta had been a good friend over the years, and moreover, she had passed on a few tricks any woman working in trade ought to know – ways of charming customers with wide-eyed, attentive smiles; methods of gleaning information from the slightest clues in speech, manner and appearance; and yes, modes of inflicting revenge _(mostly harmless revenge, of course)_ on the occasional difficult customer.   
  
Downing the last of her butterbeer, Abby chuckled as she recalled the Waistline Charm she had once placed on Gilderoy Lockhart's beloved lilac robes. After a particularly long fitting and its accompanying prattle, her nerves had frayed. Apparently her robemaking, while very fine, could not compare to the exquisite tailoring he had learned _"after rescuing the Clothier of Copenhagen from certain death"._   
  
Lockhart had left the shop none the wiser, but from that day on, his robes began to shrink half a centimetre with each self-serving remark he made. The effects had been quite amusing, until Abby realized that the charm only sent him back to Gladrags for more alterations. Between the weekly visits and frequent demands for color consultations, Abby was amazed that she made it through the school year with her sanity intact.   
  
_Er…perhaps that's not the best choice of words. _  
  
Poor Gilderoy. At least the hospital gowns at St. Mungo's were tolerable – available in several hues, they sported a rather spiffing Closure Charm at the back.   
  
Bursts of raucous laughter broke through Abby's train of thought. The crowd was still particularly lively, and she did not want to chance another scene. She swiveled on her stool to leave and glanced back at Lawson's table, where his drinking partners were thumping him on the back. Their slurred words carried back to her easily.   
  
"You don't want a bit of stuff like her anyway, mate. Heard she couldn't even pass them O.W.L.s up at Hogwarts…"   
  
Her eyes hardened as she continued her exit.   
  
_Well, you're right there, **mate**. I didn't pass my O.W.L.s, but only because Albus Dumbledore asked me not to._   
  
Abby paused in the doorway and gave a small wave goodbye to Madam Rosmerta, who levitated over a packet of food in return. Clutching her wrap once more, Abby stepped out of the pub and continued her walk home, deep in thought.   
  
Abigail Loomis had been a happy Hufflepuff in her Hogwarts days. A hapless Hufflepuff, if you were to ask a Slytherin, but no matter. Despite the implications, she loved her house and all it stood for. Her childhood home had always been full of books and learning, and she had eagerly awaited the day when she could attend Hogwarts and study magic in its fullest.   
  
A deep, hidden corner of her mind always feared what Headmaster Dumbledore might say in the conversation that she knew would someday come. Snippets of overheard conversations between her parents and grandmother made it quite clear that Dumbledore knew more about her family than even most of their closest acquaintances. But she had always suppressed the increasing worry, even throughout most of her fifth year, when letters from her mother had become less and less frequent. So many things begged her to stay in the present, rather than fret about the future. Right now, she had her studies, her friendships…and Will, the first tender, all-consuming love of a fifteen year-old girl.   
  
A fellow Hufflepuff, William Lowby had been in her life since her first year. She had seen his brown hair and shy smile over countless Potions cauldrons, study tables, and dinners in the Great Hall. And while she had never given him much of a second thought, she and most all other female Hufflepuffs certainly noticed when Will returned from the holidays after fourth year looking much, much differently. His shoulders were broader, his voice was deeper… Occasionally, Abby saw his still-shy glance in her direction, and she desperately wished that she might look much, much differently to him, too.   
  
One evening, about a month into the school year, Will had approached her near the common room fire. A button had come off his Quidditch robes, he explained, and he wondered if she might be able to sew it back in place. He had tried himself, he said, but with little luck.   
  
Abby's first thought had been to ask Will if he knew about the mending station that the house-elves ran in a room to the left of the castle laundry. But then, as he sat beside her on the sofa, she decided that she did not care to disclose that particular piece of information just yet. When he gave her the robes, touching her hand for two and a half seconds longer than necessary, she decided the house-elves could run for Muggle Parliament for all she cared.   
  
As they were in the same house and year, Abby and Will already shared many classes together. After a certain post-Quidditch match celebration (Hufflepuff had beat Slytherin, a rare and momentous occasion), they also shared visits to Hogsmeade, Sunday afternoon walks around the lake, and furtive kisses in the quiet of Hufflepuff Turret.   
  
That setting had offered a beautiful view of the forest, but the décor was sparse and the stone walls held little heat. Fortunately, Abby excelled at Cushioning Charms, and Will had a talent for, erm, Heating Spells. With a myriad of other, more comfortable rooms to choose from, few other students sought out the turret.   
  
Abby remembered well the giddy feeling of tapping six times the stone head of "Helga". The statue of the house's badger mascot would slide aside, allowing her and Will to slip past and climb the narrow stairs leading to their haunt. There in the stillness, Will would tell her of his hopes and plans for the future. He wanted to work in the top levels of the Ministry of Magic, and he was willing to work hard toward that end. Although he never said so implicitly, he wanted Abby with him. The both of them understood that much.   
  
On too many occasions, Abby had come very close to telling Will her own most deeply guarded secret. Mum and Grandmother had never explicitly told her not to tell anyone, but their images and voices always halted her lips before she spoke the words –   
  
_"Will, have you ever seen an Invisibility Cloak?"_   
  
In April of that school year, Professor Sprout kept Abby back after a Friday Herbology lesson to inform her that Professor Dumbledore wished to see her. She provided a map to the headmaster's office, hastily drawn on a Grozupp Foliage Food bag, and advised Abby not to inquire further about the password of "Noxious Nougat."   
  
Abby remembered well the shaking of her hands as she knocked on Dumbledore's door. He had rarely spoken to her during her five years at Hogwarts, but the occasional direct look the headmaster gave her in the Great Hall conveyed more than words might. He knew what she was meant to do in the wizarding world, and he meant to prepare her for it. And while Abby was not exactly certain of the words he would say now, the pit of her stomach felt very certain of what those words would concern.   
  
Dumbledore had been alone in his office, reclining behind an ancient wooden desk. His half-moon spectacles glinted in the firelight, and in his mouth was what looked to be, Abby noted with mild disgust, an eagle feather quill. She had toyed with quill nibbling as a youngster, but a colleague of her father's had put a quick end to that habit by Transfiguring the quill into a live, squawking chicken the moment the it had entered her mouth.   
  
Dumbledore rose to his feet as she entered the room, and beckoned her to be seated in the brocade armchair across from him.   
  
"You wished to see me, sir?" she asked. Her timid voice seemed to echo throughout the space.   
  
"Ah yes, I did, Miss Loomis." The quill, still lingering in his mouth, muffled his words. He smiled and held out a similar quill to Abby, which she accepted quizzically.   
  
"Please, do give it a try," Dumbledore urged. "The Sookers were kind enough to send a large box up. It might have been larger, but I shall not complain."   
  
Abby's brow furrowed in mild confusion. The only Sookers of whom she knew of ran the Honeydukes Sweetshop. Perhaps the quills were a "thank you" for the business Dumbledore gave them by way of allowing Hogsmeade visits. He was the headmaster, after all, and writing implements _would_ be a fitting gift.   
  
_Well, one can always use another quill, I suppose._   
  
Pulling parchment and ink from her bag, Abby readied her hand to test the quill. She wondered if she had misinterpreted his reasons for meeting. Surely Dumbledore was not interested in her penmanship, but his methods never really had been what one might call conventional. After an incident at the last Christmas dinner, in which he reputedly led the group in something called "the limbo", a few cheeky seventh years even began referring to him as a "barmy old codger".   
  
Dumbledore chuckled gently. He reached across the desk to stop her at the precise moment when the nib would have met ink. "This is a _sugar_ quill, my dear – meant to be eaten. They are Rose Sooker's latest concoction, and quite a delightful one, at that."   
  
Flushing with embarrassment, Abby turned her head and focused her attention on the tapestries hanging from the room's circular walls. They were beautifully constructed, she could not help but notice, and seemed rather familiar.   
  
Glancing back, she saw that the headmaster was watching her expectantly. She felt a bit silly, but his words had not been patronizing. After hesitating for a moment, she touched the tip of the quill to her tongue and tasted at once the strong flavour of blackberry syrup. It seemed to coat her entire mouth in seconds. Delighted, she met Dumbledore's eye with a bashful smile.   
  
"Tasty, are they not? And they come with none of the dreadful guesswork that accompany other sweets," he said. "I find myself rather partial to the banana flavour."   
  
A moment passed while they sat quietly, savouring their quills. At length, Dumbledore spoke.   
  
"Is there anything that might set you apart from other students here at Hogwarts, Miss Loomis? Any ability, any skill in your family line?" he queried softly.   
  
His question caused Abby to let out a small gasp. Perhaps he really did not know. She did have a knack with needle and thread, but that might not necessarily mean much. There might be a chance. Perhaps she could dissuade him. Dumbledore sat silently, awaiting her answer.   
  
"Well, my mum is…well, she's a Weaver," Abby began. It seemed so strange to say the words out loud. "She makes Invisibility Cloaks. My grandmother and her mum were also Weavers, I know." The next words tumbled out in an unconvincing rush. "I might be really awful at it, though. I might not even have the gift at all. I've only had a few summer holidays' worth of training."   
  
The headmaster leaned forward, resting the legs of his chair on the floor. He peered at Abby over his gleaming spectacles. His gaze was kind, but his voice was frank. "Miss Loomis, you and I both know that you are a Weaver…one of the last we have in England, as a matter of fact."   
  
Abby stared at her shoes, ashamed. She had not meant to be fully duplicitous with the headmaster; she was just fifteen and a little scared of whatever he might ask of her.   
  
At this point, Dumbledore's face took on an uncharacteristically somber cast. "Miss Loomis, I must ask also you if you have noticed any changes recently in your mother."   
  
_"My mother?"_ The question startled her, and her mind began to race. Well yes, her mum had acted a bit odd over the Christmas holidays. Absentminded, perhaps a little distant. But it had been a busy time, and she had been preoccupied. She was preparing for the finishing of an Invisibility Cloak, one destined for Alastor Moody, the aforementioned Ministry chum of Abby's father. She had been working on that cloak for as long as Abby could remember.   
  
"She hasn't written me much lately, but I know she's had things to do. She's not unwell, is she?" Abby asked.   
  
Lightly stroking the length of his beard, Dumbledore continued his concentrated gaze.   
  
"Have your Muggle Studies courses acquainted you with a medical condition known as 'Alzheimer's Disease'?"   
  
"Well, yes…we covered diseases last term. I believe it's called Hesternus Syndrome among wizards. Sir? Why – why do you ask? Oh…" Abby fell silent as the unwelcome realization sunk upon her. Her mind and heart had been suppressing this very possibility for months, and she was no more willing to acknowledge it now. Yet here, in Albus Dumbledore's office, she knew that she had no choice.   
  
"Your father did not wish to burden you with this hardship quite yet," Dumbledore went on. "He wished for you to happily enjoy your studies and friends here at Hogwarts. Your mother was able to finish her last cloak, but the disease set upon her rapidly and her mind now lives primarily in the past, child. Your father plans to hire a carewitch to help see to her at home, yet the possibility exists that in time, she may need to relocate to St. Mungo's Hesternus Research Facility."   
  
Abby kept her head bowed and tried to control the shaking of her shoulders. She could not meet Dumbledore's eye, and so she focused instead at the moist spots gathering on her robes and the brocade arm of her chair.   
  
_Not Mum, not Mum… _  
  
The refrain circled over and over in her head, even while her mind told her it was true. The headmaster's voice remained calm, but it carried an undercurrent of intensity as he continued speaking.   
  
"Alas, Abigail, you know the world in which we now live. Voldemort gathers allies daily in his quest to 'purify'" – he said that word with the most harshness Abby had ever heard from his mouth – "the wizarding people. He has made several attempts in recent years to discern the identities of our Weavers, as he would like to exploit any good and noble skill to further his purposes. He has already threatened the Demiguise population – imagine the result if Invisibility Cloaks were made available to his Death Eater followers."   
  
"Sir," Abby said, her voice quavering as she finally raised her head, "Sir, surely he doesn't know about my mother. Nothing has ever happened to my family. We live outside the city, in a quiet area. We – we keep chickens." Her eyes implored him for one last hope.   
  
The headmaster gave a tender half-smile. "Miss Loomis, is Alastor Moody not a friend of your father's? Is he not often in your home?"   
  
Tears spilled onto her cheeks as she bobbed her head. Dumbledore fixed his eyes on her.   
  
"What is his profession, dear?"   
  
"He's an Auror," she whispered.   
  
"Yes, he is," Dumbledore replied pointedly. "One of our best. There are reasons other than friendship that keep him close to your family."   
  
Abby stared at the tapestries again as the enormity of this newfound knowledge overtook her. Tears stung her eyes, and her heart thudded dully until she dared to turn and face the headmaster once more. His face softened, and Abby thought for a moment that not only his glasses were gleaming.   
  
"I have something to ask of you, Miss Loomis," he said. "Something difficult, I must say, but I believe that the ruse will keep you and your magical calling safe from harm. Have you visited the Gladrags Wizardwear establishment on your trips to Hogsmeade?"   
  
She nodded her head slowly. Of course, any fifth-year girl would have been to Gladrags.   
  
"Madame Bussell, a great friend, has agreed to take you on as an apprentice. You will work there during the day, spending your remaining hours developing your skills as a Weaver. Unfortunately, you will not have the benefits of your mother's instruction or any written materials. The ancient originators of this magic, in some flight of fancy, decided that any written descriptions of the cloak making would become invisible themselves. In such a way, their Weaver secrets could not be corrupted or exploited. A bit of ingenious thinking, yes, but rather inconvenient for you."   
  
Her mouth began to parch as she breathed in and out, her eyes hurting too badly to focus. Was he asking her to leave Hogwarts? To work at _Gladrags_?   
  
"Professor Dumbledore? What about – How will I – My studies, sir?" she asked.   
  
"My dear, I think you will find that the greater lessons of life are not always learned at Hogwarts. I shall arrange for advanced study materials to be sent to you on a regular basis, but I am afraid our Hogwarts staff will not be able to assist you much beyond that. You will be largely responsible for your own learning. I have no worries on this point, however. There was a reason you were made a Hufflepuff, Miss Loomis."   
  
"But…" she faltered, unable to continue. Dumbledore spoke instead, answering her silent question.   
  
"Mr. Lowby is a fine young man, Miss Loomis. I fear, though, that he is not ready to understand the demands – and yes, the sacrifices – your gift may require. The time will come when he, too, may be ready for this knowledge. He will finish his own education in only a few short years. Until then, I must ask you to wait."   
  
A distinct numbness settled over Abby. Finally, she voiced the only articulate thought she could gather:   
  
"Sir, am I expelled?"   
  
He shook his head softly, his long, white beard swaying back and forth, and let out a heavy sigh.   
  
"You must understand that I cannot compel you in this matter, my dear. I will, however, ask it of you all the same." Dumbledore paused. "Are you familiar with a certain tree on the Hogwarts grounds by the name of the 'Whomping Willow'?"   
  
And so it happened. After her tears had tapered off, Dumbledore explained his plan for Abby's departure from Hogwarts. Close and dangerous encounters between students and the Whomping Willow were becoming more commonplace; another "accident" would come as no surprise. (Abby wanted to ask why he did not just magically relocate the tree to, oh, _Finland_, but she did not dare.) The headmaster allowed her a few days' time to think, but her father was too distraught to offer much additional guidance, and in the end, seeing little alternative, she consented to Dumbledore's proposal.   
  
It was her O.W.L.s preparation parchments that would blow away one windy day and entangle themselves in the Willow's lower branches. Abby rushed to the tree – without thinking, apparently – and scrambled to retrieve her papers. A study mate, Davey Gudgeon, was rushing to her aid when a particularly brutal limb struck them both. Davey would have lost his eye, had it not been for the enchantments Dumbledore had placed on the tree the day before. Abby ended up with only a mild headache, but guilt over Davey's injury and the pain in her own heart helped her feign a much worse affliction.   
  
At first she complained of headaches, then of trouble in concentrating, then of the inability to cast what had once been simple spells. By the time the O.W.L.s approached, rumours that the head blow had left Abby permanently addled were in full force. Exam results were not customarily released until after the fifth years had left for the summer holidays, but after a few carefully placed words with some loose-lipped students, all of Hogwarts soon knew of her predicament. Abigail Loomis had not received passing marks on her O.W.L.s, and she would not be coming back.   
  
Will had been so tender and caring after the accident, yet when she became increasingly sullen and uncommunicative, he had not quite known what to do. The gossip escalated, acting like a weed pushing its way between two cobblestones. By the time the carriages arrived to take the students to Hogsmeade Station, Abby knew she had little right to ask if Will would still visit her over the holidays. He kept his lanky form angled towards the window for the duration of the ride, offering no conversation except for a few halfhearted comments about the weather and the state of the road. Finally, on the platform, she swallowed her scant remaining pride and asked.   
  
For a moment, a trace of the sweet, funny boy whom Abby loved flickered across Will's face. But then he looked at his feet, explaining that his cousin Patrick had asked him for a visit. They had already made numerous plans, and he did not know if he would have time left for anything else. Abby looked at her own feet, trying to choke back the sob in her throat. Will then gave her hand a fleeting touch, but by the time she had lifted her head, he was gone.   
  
Abby had hoped that he only needed to time and space in which to sort things out, and that at the end of his stay with the McKinnons, they might have a chance to talk. Perhaps Dumbledore would even let her confide in Will as soon as that. In the end, she never got the chance to ask. The Death Eater attack on the McKinnon farm was in the papers before she even had time to send an owl. Years later, Abby felt an odd sense of gratitude that Dumbledore had asked to leave Hogwarts when she did. She doubted that she would have wanted to return anyway; even now, the sight of her and Will's old haunts caused her a heart a sad, dull pang.   
  
The Hogsmeade villagers had already known of her tragedies by the time she arrived in town. In awkward sympathy, most people skirted around her with delicate silence, creating an unforeseen blessing – Abby had been able to settle into her new surroundings and occupation with little interruption or interrogation. She heard the whispers, of course, but at that point, even the thoughtless gossip could not cut through the depth of her hurt.   
  
Though they never fully departed, the feelings had ebbed in time, and Abby began to find interest in life again. And although progress in her self-directed Weaver training had been slow in the beginning, she did have thrilling moments in which real breakthroughs were made. An Invisibility Cloak took fifteen to twenty years to make, her mother had told her, and that far-off goal helped Abby to detach herself from her present heartbreak.   
  
Taffeta Bussell had been a kind friend and mentor. While not a Weaver herself, she had knowledge of and respect for the practice. When she retired five years ago to breed enchanted silkworms, she entrusted the running of Gladrags to Abby. Madam Rosmerta, as Dumbledore's chief Hogsmeade intelligence liaison, had also become a confidante. Abby often imagined how the pub patrons would fall off their barstools if they had an inkling of the secrets that Rosmerta kept.   
  
Abby herself still wondered if Walter and Rose Sooker, the proprietors of Honeydukes, were part of Dumbledore's network. She had seen the countless stacks of edible candy boxes in his office. There was no use asking Rosmerta on that point, however. She always met alone with Abby and never discussed any other meetings, which was just as it should be. As far the rest of Hogsmeade knew, Abigail Loomis was no more than a pleasant witch, if not a slightly dim one, who wielded a good needle. (She also had to concede that Dumbledore was just as likely doing product testing for Honeydukes.)   
  
A gust of chilling wind then brought Abby back to the present, causing a violent shiver. She cursed herself for not bringing her winter cloak, but it would only be a minute or two before she reached the end of the High Street and entered the lane that ended at her small cottage. As she increased her pace, she started at the abrupt sight of a large black _something_ crouching in the space that separated her home from that of her neighbors, the Boormans. A fearful moment passed as Abby peered sharply into the darkness.   
  
_Oh, it's only that dog._   
  
She had seen the shaggy, lumbering beast at play with the Boorman's children before. Letting out the breath she had been holding, she picked up her feet and arrived shortly at her welcome front door.   
  
It was a lovely night, Abby thought as she laid out her things on the stone bench and set into dinner. She found herself particularly thankful for the No-Chill Charm Dumbledore had placed on her back garden at the end of last year, in gratitude for her Christmas gift. A few words, and the blustery October cold gave way to pleasant warmth.   
  
_He must have really liked those socks._   
  
Abby knew she stood a good chance of mussing up her robes, but she was hungry and Rosmerta's chicken was quite good. Besides, she had already treated the robes with Stain-Away Solution, a recent collaboration between herself and Madam Malkin. (It was a wonderful discovery, but one they had mutually agreed to keep it under wraps at present, recognizing it could hurt business if made available to the general public.) A copy of the _Daily Prophet_ was spread before her, acting both as reading material and a makeshift tablecloth.   
  
As Abby skimmed the advertisements, a rustling sound drew her eyes away from the paper and to the garden's cast-iron gate. As she focused on the black outline, she recognized again the same stray dog. For such a hulking thing, he seemed to have a lovable demeanor. He tolerated the poking and prodding of the Boorman children, no easy feat. Abby wondered if he was cold, despite the thickness of his coat.   
  
"Hullo there!" she called out. "I do see you, you know."   
  
The dog moved from vision, but the sound of his low breathing gave away his presence.   
  
With a quick wand wave, Abby magicked the gate completely open.   
  
"Here, would you like some chicken? By way of introduction and such."   
  
The dog padded tentatively into the garden, looking around in animal confusion as he took in the temperature change.   
  
"It's nice isn't it? Find yourself some knitting needles and a nice Scottish wool, and Professor Dumbledore might cast an enchantment on your coat, as well."   
  
The dog advanced further, and Abby laughed as he seemed to peer over the low wall into the Boorman's garden. "You're not worried that those horrid children will see you here and drag you back home, are you?" she asked. "Don't worry, they can't see in. Dumbledore took care of that, too."   
  
The dog wagged his tail happily. Abby placed a chicken wing on the ground before him, which he bit into with unfeigned enthusiasm.   
  
"Now, do you have a name? An owner?" She looked around the dog's neck as best she could, but she could not discern a collar in the dense mat of fur.   
  
"Right, then – I shall have to name you. Let me think…how about Spot?" The dog growled playfully, wagging his tail. "Rover? No? Let me try something more interesting." She looked upwards. "Hmmm…Midnight? Comet?"   
  
He growled again, causing her to laugh.   
  
"That's fine, boy. I gather you'd like a name of greater depth and sophistication. Well, I can't fault you there. Let me have another try at it – my marks in Astronomy weren't all that bad…"   
  
She cocked her head and looked upwards once more.   
  
"Perseus? Orion?"   
  
Her eyes alit on a certain patch of the night sky.   
  
"Sir – " she began, her gaze on Canis Major and one star in particular. Her mind inadvertently drew up the image of a tall, confident boy she had once watched at Hogwarts. She did not notice that the dog had ceased growling and was staying motionless at her feet.   
  
"No, that name's been taken, I'm afraid." She blinked her eyes rapidly, pulling herself out of her wandering thoughts. A name, a name. The memory of her childhood Puffskein came suddenly to mind.   
  
"Snuffles?" she then proposed, giggling. The dog snorted, as if in laughter, covering Abby's shoes with a good amount of drool. Her Puffskein had done that on occasion, too – perhaps this was a sign.   
  
"Decided, then – Snuffles it is!" she cried delightedly. She reached forward her hand, and the dog allowed her to pat his head.   
  
She smiled, remembering her former pet. "I certainly hope you don't share any more Puffskein habits, or I may have to end this acquaintance right now."   
  
The dog wagged his tail again and gave a longing whine, looking at the chicken.   
  
"You are direct, I'll give you that." She tore off a chicken leg. "Here you are, _Snuffles_."   
  
The pair sat for a space of time, enjoying the warmth and the chicken, until Abby interrupted the silence with a sharp gasp. Her eyes darted to her watch. Rosmerta would be in her fire in two minutes for a debriefing. Without another word to the canine in her company, she snatched her wand from the bench and turned to leave, managing to stub her toe soundly in the process. The dog stared as Abby hopped and howled her way back to the cottage.   
  
When she returned later to retrieve her things, her newspaper and the rest of the chicken were gone.   
  
_A/N: Say "Sooker, Rose" ten times quickly. ;)   
  
Will Lowby was originally intended to be much less nice to Abby after her accident, hence his name (think Jane Austen). But then he spoke up and told me that he really was a decent fellow, thank you very much. He was just confused.   
  
My sincere appreciation goes to **Catherine** for her encouragement, to **Lallybroch** for her initial guidance, and to **Alanna Granger** for her numerous insights. I'm also very grateful to **Arabella** and **Ciircee** for allowing me to reference their ideas of Hufflepuff house from "Before the Beginning" and "To Be Hufflepuff".   
  
_


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**   
  
Looking out her shop window into the bright November sunlight, Abby asked herself again if she had left out fresh water that morning. Yes…yes, she had. She had remembered to set it out right before leaving, after she had cast the No-Chill Charm on the garden. A silly dog, that Snuffles. By all appearances he was active and robust, yet most days he preferred to simply loll about the garden. Perhaps he liked the warmth, or he understood that he was safe there from the poking and prodding of the not-so-very-delightful Boorman children.   
  
In the beginnings of her friendship with the dog, Abby began to leave her gate ajar each morning, thinking he might stop by. Then, she began to leave a dish of water out, which she soon noticed was empty by the evening. Now, after a few weeks, Snuffles greeted her happily at the end of each workday. She liked to think he enjoyed her company, but he could just as well be after the scraps and bones she had taken to bringing home from the grocer.   
  
They spent many evening hours together in the back garden, where Abby would read and write letters while Snuffles padded about. Yet whenever she would retire to the cottage for the night, he would not follow. For whatever reason, he would not sleep in the cottage. Or in the garden, for that matter – she had checked. After she would have been inside for twenty or thirty minutes, Snuffles would ease out the back gate, nudging it quietly shut. She had wondered at the peculiar sight, but finally tossed any worry aside. He had _other_ strange habits, to be certain. As crafty as he might think himself to be, she knew he was the one nicking her newspapers. But she had never kept a dog before – perhaps these were universal canine traits.   
  
_Or perhaps his previous owners were a bit odd. At least he seems housebroken._   
  
Nearby sounds interrupted her musings, causing Abby to turn her head away from the window. The tentative voice of Chanella Parker, the shop's latest hire, was coming from the back of the showroom, where she was dealing with a customer.   
  
"Um, Mr. Bagman…um, sir…" she stammered, "I don't believe we can let these out any more than we already have."   
  
Abby turned her head away and smiled. The day was soon approaching when Ludo Bagman would have to either choose a proper exercise programme or lay the yellow and black robes from his Quidditch days aside for good. She entertained the thought of simply making him a new set as an early Christmas gift. After all, Ludo had been very useful in helping Gladrags procure advertising at the Quidditch World Cup – tremendous exposure, really.   
  
"We'll just have to try a little harder then, won't we!" Bagman called out loudly. "I wore these robes with the _Wimbourne Wasps_. Won the League four times, I – er, _we_ – did, and not just any team can say that!" He chuckled with self-satisfaction.   
  
Chanella caught her employer's eye and silently pled for assistance. Abby couldn't help but smile to herself as she walked over, thinking again of Item #5 in Madam Bussell's _Rules of Customer Care_ pamphlet – _"Each customer must be allowed to realize in his or her own time that your advice will always be the best."_ Just that morning, she had had to forsake all hope of convincing that reporter woman – Anita? Lita? – that chartreuse was not her best colour.   
  
"Hello, Mr. Bagman! Everything all right?"   
  
Bagman turned at the sound of her voice. "Oi! Miss Loomis! My robes seem to have…um…shrunk up in the wash. This young lady wasn't sure she could fix them up for me."   
  
Nodding calmly, Abby gestured to the garment in his arms. "May I have the robes? Chanella is really quite talented, Mr. Bagman. I'll send her to the back to see what she can do."   
  
He handed her the robes with the air of one imparting a priceless treasure, and Abby gravely passed them on to Chanella, whispering "Engorgement Charm – double strength!" Her assistant scurried off, clearly relieved to be removed from the situation.   
  
"Now Mr. Bagman, what would you say to Gladrags making you a new set of yellow and black robes? You've been so obliging lately with our publicity."   
  
Bagman's blue eyes widened and he shook his head emphatically, looking rather aghast at even the thought of replacing such a cherished article of clothing. "Miss Loomis, _I_ – yes, um, _the Wasps_ – won the league four times in those robes! I don't think I could part with them…unless, of course, the Museum of Quidditch would want to buy them off me. Hmm, now there's a thought… I was a Beater, you know. For the _Wimbourne Wasps_."   
  
Abby nodded her head in wide-eyed appreciation.   
  
_Between him and Gilderoy Lockhart, I'm not sure who's more attached to his blooming robes._   
  
"Quite understandable, sir. What would you say to a dress pair, instead?"   
  
Bagman laughed nervously. "Now, Miss Loomis – I can't be throwing all my Galleons at new robes, can I?" he said with a wink.   
  
Yes, Ludo, I do get what you're after.   
  
"Oh, Mr. Bagman, dear no. Sales have been up _considerably_ since the Quidditch World Cup. Accept them as a token of our thanks."   
  
Noticeably perking up at the mention of something _gratis_, he glanced over to the dress robes area and began to eye some particularly garish fabrics.   
  
"Well, I've always fancied myself in purple. Purple, with moons. Or stars. Or moons. Or stars…whichever is luckier." No longer looking at Abby, he began to head towards the dress robes as though magnetically drawn. She followed dutifully behind.   
  
_Not a problem, Ludo…just as long as you tell me a little something I've been curious to know._   
  
Bagman now had his hands on a brilliant purple satin, which he draped over his shoulder in a grand display. Abby seized the opportunity. His attention was fully absorbed in the fabric, creating the perfect moment to strike (she had found that people gave away more information when preoccupied).   
  
"Do tell, Mr. Bagman, how are you getting on with the Triwizard Tournament? That must be quite an undertaking for you."   
  
Bagman looked up briefly and beamed. "Famously! The thing almost runs itself."   
  
Abby took a tape measure from her belt and set about measuring. In a voice of idle conversation, she continued. "Talk around town is that young Harry Potter's been made a fourth champion."   
  
He broke his gaze with the fabric then and cleared his throat sheepishly. "Yes, well, that was a bit of a hiccough, wasn't it?"   
  
"I remember his father as being quite the sportsman in his Hogwarts days. You've really no idea how Harry's name was entered?" she asked easily as she measured his arm length.   
  
"Nary a clue. But it should make for a smashing good show!"   
  
"Yes, of course…hmm…and you don't think he's bit young for it all?"   
  
Bagman looked out the window, his shiny brow furrowed in deep, deep thought. "Well, Harry's still a skinny little chap. Sharp, though. If he's brave enough to give it a go, I'll back him! They say the boy can fly like nothing else – I'm sure he has a good chance at winning the ruddy thing. You don't, er, wager, do you, Miss Loomis?"   
  
"Oh no, Mr. Bagman! Tracking the odds and all – it's a bit too much for me to sort out," she chuckled, measuring across his shoulders.   
  
_That, and the fact that a nasty rumor going around The Three Broomsticks says you have trouble paying up._   
  
She wand-waved the tape around Mr. Bagman's girth, then, pausing to jot down his measurements, lost herself to her thoughts once more.   
  
Abby had seen James Potter a handful of times in childhood, never enough to make up a proper acquaintance. His grandfather, Matthias Potter, had been the Healer in her grandmother's village, and had even delivered Abby's mother. James did send a casual "hello" her way from time to time in the corridors of Hogwarts, but he never introduced her to his friends. Though an outsider, she still had reason to feel a definite connection to his group.   
  
Abby never really knew where her ability to spot an Invisibility Cloak originated – perhaps it was a simple as knowing what to look for. Invisibility Cloaks _were_ exceedingly rare, and from what her mother had told her, Weavers did seem to have an awful lot of trouble having children to carry on the gift. She doubted if any other students besides her, James, and his lot had ever even been so closely exposed to a cloak, and those boys had certainly never seen one made.   
  
It had been a heady sensation to be party to mischief known only to her and the perpetrators. Of course, that feeling was always accompanied by the nagging idea that the aptitude was most likely a confirmation of her future life as a Weaver. Abby had been surprised, and then quite delighted, the first time she had spotted a glistening and oddly familiar pattern of air moving across school grounds. Wherever the air went, chaos, confusion, and Dungbombs soon followed. With a bit of time and surreptitious observation, she soon discovered the identities of those behind the mayhem – James Potter and three other Gryffindors.   
  
Abby had been born in the dusk of her mother's childbearing years, and she had grown up playing amongst the large wooden looms in her family's home. The looms resided in the underground level of the dwelling, where the spacious room was enchanted to continually show a beautiful spring morning from its imaginary windows. She played at camping there, sleeping beneath the stretched, silvery cloth as if it were a tent. From time to time, when Mum and Grandmother were not looking, Abby would thrown a silky Demiguise pelt over her shoulders and pretended to be a Muggle actress. The glimmering threads were intrinsically tied to her mind, her home, and her life.   
  
It was only in the spring of the previous school year, just months ago, that she had seen that cloak again for the first time since coming to Hogsmeade. Abby had been inside Honeydukes that day, pressed against to counter to avoid the crush of hungry students. The town was always crowded on Hogsmeade weekends, and the queue was inching along at a Flobberworm's pace.   
  
She had just been stretching her neck, staring aimlessly at the foot traffic outside, when a long-forgotten scene met her eyes: refractions of light, a distinct movement of air, the mostly undetectable shimmer of invisible cloth. Stunned, she fumbled to keep her box of sugar quills from dropping to the floor. She had often wondered where a certain possession had ended up after the Potters were killed. For all the impact the sight held after eighteen years of absence, James Potter himself might have been strutting through Honeydukes. In an instant, Abby knew her grandmother's cloak was in use once more.   
  
She paid for the box of mini-quills as quickly as she could wrench the coins from her purse. The tiny sweets were intended for the children who waited patiently while their mothers were served in Gladrags, and they often made the difference between leaving the shop on time and staying behind to straighten the merchandise for two extra hours. The shop's "child pacification supplies" were dangerously low, and Abby did not dare return empty-handed to a mob of unhappy youngsters.   
  
Rushing from Honeydukes, Abby scanned the street with frantic eyes until she marked once more the soft gleam of the cloak. The figure under it moved closely with a tall, orange-haired boy in the direction of the post office. Abby breathed a sigh of relief. She had heard from Poppy Pomfrey a few years back that Harry Potter kept company with the youngest of the Weasley boys. The tall boy certainly looked to be an offspring of Arthur and Molly, and if he truly was, then Abby knew the cloak was in hands of its proper owner.   
  
The boys – one visible, one not –now ducked into the post office. Abby lingered across the street, making idle chit-chat with Gerald Cleaves, the grocer, and training one eye on the post office door. After a few minutes, the strange duo left the building and headed for Zonko's Joke Shop. Abby bid a cheery goodbye to Mr. Cleaves and strolled down the street, grateful again for the easily detectable hair of the Weasley clan. Young Ron had little hope of ever being inconspicuous in a crowd.   
  
Zonko's would likely keep them entertained for some time, she thought, as the boys grew closer to the violently green and orange-striped building. Counting on a young lad's fascination with Dungbombs as an unchanging, unshakeable truth, Abby turned on her heels and rushed back to Gladrags. She entered the shop as calmly as possible, despite her heavy breath and flustered appearance, and thrust the package into an assistant's hands. She then hurried out the door once more, barely keeping her steps to a steady walk. Peering into the window of Zonko's, though careful not to touch the glass (it turned one's skin blue), she saw Ron and the cloaked figure snickering over the frog spawn soap. The iridescent motions of the cloak shook back and forth, which gladdened Abby's heart. If it really was Harry Potter underneath, he certainly deserved a laugh.   
  
Ron paid for the large pile of tricks they had accumulated and then made for the exit. Abby quickly turned her back to the door and began rifling through her purse. Waiting a long minute, she peered over her shoulder. The flaming head of hair was now heading to The Three Broomsticks – no, past The Three Broomsticks – and up the hill to the Shrieking Shack. Grateful again for the Weasley genetics, she followed.   
  
At Hogwarts, she had had to discern who was using the cloak by other means. For pranks carried out in public, she learned to mark who was missing from James' group while Filibuster's Fireworks exploded underneath the Slytherin table. Footsteps had also been an easy identifier, once she knew what to listen for. James Potter had a firm, steady step. Peter Pettigrew, in his haste to keep up with his longer-limbed companions, often shuffled his feet. A boisterous gait meant Sirius Black. When she saw the cloak but heard no steps at all, she knew Remus Lupin was beneath. Only last year, when the story of a werewolf teaching at Hogwarts trickled down to the village, did she understand the reason for his imperceptible tread.   
  
Passing the pub, Abby came to rest against a lamppost with a good view of the Shack. It was quite an interesting sight. Away from the crowds of Zonko's and Honeydukes, Ron seemed to speak freely to Harry. To anyone else but Abby, his monologue with the early spring air might give cause for eyebrows to rise.   
  
Something on the lamppost was mussing up her hair, and Abby turned her head in irritation. Glancing behind, she saw a familiar (though not welcome) object, one that had papered the town since summer. One of those blasted notices about Sirius Black. Well, she did not care to think about that right now. In blatant disregard of wizarding littering statutes, Abby ripped the parchment down, wadded it into a ball, and threw it on the ground.   
  
A noise brought her attention back to the Shrieking Shack. Three other boys – two hulking, one smaller – were climbing the hill and would soon approach Ron. She squinted her eyes to better see what was taking place as all four boys met. Judging by the rapidly increasingly colour of Ron's face, a storm was brewing. But then, suddenly, the cloak slipped away from Ron. Harry was leaving his friend to deal with the other boys?   
  
No. He was gathering up some muck from the path, raising it in the air, and – oh! Abby caught her breath as the sludge flew, striking the smaller, blond-haired boy in the back of the head. She started to giggle uncontrollably, now recognizing him as Draco Malfoy. He had come to Gladrags on the last Hogsmeade weekend, bringing a great number of snide remarks with him…oh, this was too rich. All three had now caught a heaping handful of the nastiness, directly in the face. Draco's henchmen were floundering about, grasping clumsily at the unseen menace.   
  
Suddenly, one of the larger boys stepped on the iridescent air, and the "suspended" head of a black-haired, bespectacled boy appeared. Abby gasped. That had to be James Potter's son. And he was certainly going to catch some trouble for this deed. Draco and his friends were already running away, screaming madly. Abby had to pull back against the lamppost as they rushed by, and then, moments later, a cloaked Harry followed…   
  
But Ludo Bagman was speaking now, and so Abby refocused her attention on her customer. The fabric had been selected _(Excellent choice, Ludo – I've been wanting to get rid of that stuff for some time now!)_ and the measuring completed, so he was now casting thinly veiled hints for more complimentary merchandise. She could hardly pretend not to understand him much longer.   
  
"Very well, then, Mr. Bagman," Abby said merrily. "I'll let you get on with the rest of your day now! I'll owl the robes to you by week's end." With a touch of resignation, Bagman gathered his Wasps robes (which Chanella had already brought back, having had great success with the Engorgement Charm) and left.   
  
Making a mental note to stop by the grocer's on her way home, Abby closed up shop later that evening and was just about to lock the front door when an incoming owl interrupted her. The bird was beautiful, sleekly groomed and a mite haughty. Abby paid her as quickly as she could, anxious to see who had sent the missive. She smiled as she recognized the seal of the Ministry's Paris embassy. It was from her father.   
  
Abby tucked the parchment in her robes and hurried off. She wanted time to read her father's letter before heading up to Hogwarts later that night for a meeting with Albus Dumbledore.   
  
Abby ran the last few steps to her front door, one arm around a bakery box, the other extended to keep the grocery bags from thumping against her legs. She was most pleased with herself. Not only had Mr. Cleaves given her a larger-than-usual amount of scraps and bones, she had managed to grab the last of that day's baked goods. Rosemary Cleaves, an unabashed devotee of the Tutshill Tornados, had taken to making a series of treats to commemorate the World Cup being held in Britain for the first time in thirty years. Abby was certain Dumbledore would enjoy the Krum-Cake; she had found it quite delicious herself.   
  
Snuffles was sure to be pleased with Mr. Cleaves' generosity, although the scraps had come with the provision that she bring her new animal by for a visit. Abby was not sure how Snuffles would take to such an outing, but Mr. Cleaves might not hold her to it. He owed her a favour anyway for recently embroidering the shop logo on his grocer's smocks. Much of Hogsmeade worked in this manner, as a matter of fact. Jasper Zonko had given her a steep discount on a beautiful set of Gobstones last year (her father's Christmas present, which he had quite enjoyed), in exchange for re-colouring his wife's robes, which had turned orange from overexposure to the merchandise. Basil Simmerman, the apothecary, gave her various potions ingredients to help with her rosebushes, although she most often used them in her weaving. She, in turn, knit him a jumper each autumn. And Rosmerta, of course, was always ready with a butterbeer in thanks for Abby's help in assembling her fantastic wardrobe.   
  
Entering the cottage door, Abby removed her cloak and quickly laid the cake aside. She located her writing kit under a pile of pattern pieces on the workbench, wincing as a large wooden bobbin fell precariously near her toes. Grabbing a dish and the bag containing Snuffles' dinner, she went into the back garden.   
  
The warmth struck her immediately, and she paused for a moment, soaking it in. It was a much more preferable to the winter chill that was setting upon Hogsmeade. Squinting her eyes, Abby peered around in the low torchlight for Snuffles. Yes, there he was, napping near the flowerbeds.   
  
_Does that dog do anything but sleep?_   
  
Abby tapped the torches with her wand, turning them on "high", and gave a low whistle. It was a feeble attempt, but it served the purpose – Snuffles lifted his head and ambled over, his tail wagging. He nuzzled the grocery bag, panting hopefully.   
  
"Oh, I can't think why you're so excited, boy – there's nothing in here for you," Abby said with an impish grin.   
  
Snuffles looked up at her and gave a melancholy whine.   
  
"No, no, this is my dinner. Sorry, old chap, you'll have to fend for yourself tonight," she said teasingly, keeping the bag out of his reach.   
  
He grabbed the sleeve of her robe with his (very large, Abby observed) teeth and shook it playfully.   
  
"I can't imagine what you're after, Snuffles, there's nothing in here that would interest you!"   
  
The dog stepped back now, hanging his head dolefully. He then looked up at Abby once more, imploring, and she noticed again the unusually pale colour of his eyes. She stared at the eyes for a moment, taking in their atypical hue and wondering just what kind of a dog he was. She had never seen a breed with those eyes before.   
  
Snuffles now nipped playfully at her feet, and Abby began to laugh.   
  
"I was just having a bit of fun with you, you beast. I won't make you beg too much for your supper, although I'd make you sing for it if I thought you knew how. Let's go over there," she gestured to the stone bench, "and you can eat while I read my letter."   
  
Settling onto the bench (which was surprisingly comfortable, once a Cushioning Charm was in place), Abby emptied the meat scraps into a dish and held it out to Snuffles. He lit into the food vociferously. She wondered, as she had on a few occasions before, if his previous owners had mistreated him. At times that dog ate as if he had never seen food before. She shook her head, giving a soft _tsk!_, and pulled the letter from her robes. Post from her father seemed so sporadic of late. She quickly broke open the red wax seal on the parchment and began to peruse the contents.   
  
Hollister Loomis had all but retired from work by the time Abby's had mother passed away eight years ago, yet memories and loneliness made life in their home much too difficult after her death. When a post as a diplomatic attaché in France had arisen, he had quickly accepted it.   
  
Oddly enough, Abby had never quite known exactly what her father had done was while she was growing up. She knew he worked for the Ministry of Magic, but as no other boring, bureaucratic details were ever mentioned, she did not think to ask. Her favorite recording groups on the WWN or her newest set of robes were far more interesting. Now, at an age where she actually held an interest in her father's vocation, Abby had the strong feeling that he was not going to offer more details than those few he had already been willing to give.   
  
She scanned the letter eagerly. Although preoccupied with work, he was in good spirits and health. He was glad to hear that the robe clasps, commissioned on her behalf from the top Parisian metalwizard, were selling well. He hoped to be able to visit during the Christmas holiday, but was as yet unsure of his work commitments. He would be sending a large parcel her way soon – an accumulation of trinkets and gifts from a recent fine goods trade fair to which his office had been invited. He hoped she might be able to put them to use or pass them on to friends. He ended with his love.   
  
Abby folded the parchment and sighed. It would be fabulous to see her father at Christmastime, but she had a distinct feeling that the visit would not come to pass. Dumbledore was always giving her the impression that the wizarding world was not quite yet safe, and that sacrifices might still be required of those who wished to keep evil out of it.   
  
Opening her writing kit, Abby laid aside a few sheets of parchment, a quill, and a bottle of crimson ink, her favorite colour. She would stop by Gladrags and use Hubert, the company owl, to send off her reply. Nibbling the quill tip (the habit had unfortunately returned in recent years), she sat quietly to gather her thoughts, only to be distracted by a rustling to her right. She glanced over in surprise. Snuffles, with a look of doggish guilt, had been trying to make off with a piece of parchment.   
  
_That dog grows more and more strange every day._   
  
"Oi, you big brute! What do you think you're doing? You might've asked, silly thing – I would have given you it. Planning to add it to your collection of newspapers, are you?"   
  
He dropped the parchment and sank to his haunches, giving Abby a peculiar stare.   
  
"Yes," she continued, "I know you and your wicked ways, Snuffles. At least you had the goodness to wait until I'd read them. Odd playthings you have, though – perhaps I should pick up some enchanted chew toys for you."   
  
She selected up another piece of parchment and held it out to him.   
  
"Until then, here you are – in the name of friendship."   
  
The dog stared at her a little longer before taking the offering in his teeth and skulking off to the far corner of the garden, where he remained until she was ready to leave. She glanced at him curiously. Had she hurt his feelings? Sealing her own letter and packing the writing things away, she rose from the bench and crossed over to him. She crouched down, carefully reached out, and scratched gently behind his soft, silky ears.   
  
"You're a good boy, aren't you?" she murmured. "A good boy. You'll probably be gone already, but I won't be home until late. Don't wait up."   
  
Snuffles turned his head and licked her hand once.   
  
"No hard feelings? I'm glad. Goodbye, you."   
  
Reminding herself to wash her hands before handling the Krum-Cake, Abby went into the cottage to gather her things and begin her solitary walk up to Hogwarts.   
  
The walk to the castle was not especially tiring, but it was long enough for the middle of November. Abby had not passed this way since last summer, when Albus Dumbledore had owled to invite up for afternoon tea. It had been so strange to see the school devoid of the bustle and fervor of student life. Her footsteps had echoed off the stone floors as she traced the path back to the headmaster's office. She had pulled his letter from her lightweight linen robes and then cringed upon seeing the password that he had written at the bottom in his unique script – "Jelly Jarvey". Someone needed to tell Walter Sooker that some things were simply not meant to be made and eaten in candied form.   
  
Dumbledore had been involved in an exchange with an oddly dressed house-elf when Abby knocked on his office door. She waited a few moments for them to finish their conversation, which, due to Dumbledore's low tone and the elf's high, squeaky jabbering, was mostly unintelligible. She passed the time instead by focusing on the exquisite tapestries on the walls. They were of her Grandmother Connelly's making, she now knew, and she loved to look at them whenever she had the chance. She also stared at the vibrant plumage of Fawkes, Dumbledore's phoenix, wondering if she could reproduce the hues in a dye.   
  
The headmaster was standing now, his "discussion" apparently over. The elf stopped to bow elaborately, again and again, in front of Abby. She still could not make much sense of his sighs and squeals, but she gave him a small, flustered curtsy in return. This seemed to please the creature to no end as he scampered out of the office, leaving her and Dumbledore alone. Over blueberry scones, he told Abby of another request he had of her – to use her talents to devise a means of surveillance for use on certain members of the wizarding population, among them Lucius Malfoy.   
  
Abby knew of Malfoy, to be certain – his name and picture were often in The Daily Prophet. And of course she had a clear memory of his son, Draco, with foul brown slime dripping down his face. Although absolved by the Ministry from any wrongdoing during the days of Voldemort, Lucius Malfoy's loyalties and motivations remained suspect to many. After consultation with someone he referred to as "Dobby" and many deliberations of his own, Dumbledore felt certain that Malfoy's vulnerability rested in his vain nature.   
  
"Our Muggle friends have an ancient saying for this, Abigail," he had said, "one which I feel quite sure Lucius Malfoy has never heard. 'Pride goeth before destruction, and an haughty spirit before a fall…' An interesting thought, that."   
  
Abby had left the office with a burdened heart. Her successes to date in her weaving were due largely to persistent plodding, exhaustive research, and a great deal of trial and error. Ingenuity was not necessarily her strong suit, yet if Dumbledore believed her fit for the task, then perhaps she was. The challenge lay in attracting Lucius to Hogsmeade, where he rarely, if ever, visited; no doubt the village was too "provincial" for his tastes.   
  
In a bit of unplanned self-indulgence, Abby had allowed herself to visit Hufflepuff Turret before leaving the castle. Both the portrait hole guardian and "Helga", in shows of Hufflepuff trust, let her by without question. She only stayed a moment, before the sorrow could renew its clutch on her heart. The Ministry claimed to have apprehended the Death Eaters who attacked the McKinnon farm that summer eighteen years ago, yet that knowledge never seemed to help much.   
  
Reaching her destination, Abby pushed aside the entrance doors of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry and slipped quietly inside. Judging by the din coming from the Great Hall, she need not have bothered. The students were still at dinner. Against her better judgment, Abby crept up to the doorway. She just wanted to look inside, to take a little peek. The Great Hall had not seemed the same when she had seen it last summer, all empty and silent. It was meant to be full of laughter, noise, and the occasional explosion. She also hoped to get a glimpse of Alastor Moody, whom she had only seen a handful of times since her father had left for France. Their last meeting had been over two years ago.   
  
A group of exiting youngsters – first-years, by all appearances – foiled her plan. They stared for a moment at the smartly dressed witch standing alone in the entrance hall, before passing by her. She gave a faint wave and a sigh to their backs as they left in the direction of the Ravenclaw common room. Compared to all the odd and unusual things the new students saw each day, she was probably of little concern to them. Still, it was probably best to be discreet. She would have to wait to greet Moody. Perhaps he might come down to The Three Broomsticks some evening, where they (or _she_, at least – he hated to eat food not of his own preparation) could enjoy dinner together.   
  
Abby set off for Dumbledore's office, passing through the familiar staircases and passageways. She had to slink into the shadows more than once as red-faced students peered out of deserted classrooms, scanned the corridors, and then slipped behind closed doors again. She stifled a chuckle. Hufflepuffs _never_ had that dilemma. More of the new students might actually want to be in Hufflepuff House, were they privy to its numerous setts, but that would remain a house secret.   
  
She tried to keep her steps quick and quiet as she continued on, passing by the statue of goblin leader Hugor the Hungry. She had not really thought of what she might say if she were to encounter an older student who wondered why the witch from Gladrags was at Hogwarts that night. She could always claim that she had come by to show robe designs to Dumbledore – he could not possibly dream up those marvelous ensembles all on his own, could he?   
  
The thought gave her reason to smile. Dumbledore did create his own costumes, in fact, owling her beautifully drawn sketches every few months. Following his detailed instructions was easy, and kind as he was, he let her keep the sketches for her personal files. As she grew more comfortable in her relationship with the headmaster, she joked that he might consider a second career in gentlewizards' fashion.   
  
To her surprise, Dumbledore himself was outside the stone gargoyle when she arrived, stooping over to retrieve a brightly coloured package from beneath the statue's feet. He straightened upon seeing her, his long beard dragging across the floor as he rose.   
  
"Good evening, Miss Loomis! I am pleased to see that you journeyed here safely. Do step into my office. Perhaps we might sample these sweets together – toffees, I believe they are."   
  
Dumbledore did not need a password to enter his office; the gargoyle jumped aside quite obligingly. Together they rode the spiral staircase up to the large oak door. It was good – comforting, even – to see him again, Abby mused. How strange, though, that even now, well into adulthood, she could not call him "Albus".   
  
His office was as fascinating as ever, and the fire crackled invitingly. Fawkes dozed in a corner, looking a little worse for the wear. She placed the Krum-Cake on a table near the door. Sinking down into the comfortable chair behind his desk, and gesturing for Abby to be seated as well, Dumbledore emptied the contents of the package onto his desk. A myriad of jewel-toned wrappers scattered across the oak surface. Adjusting his spectacles, he peered closer to read the writing on the package's flamboyant surface:   
  
_"To the most smashing headmaster Hogwarts has ever known – enjoy with our compliments."_   
  
He beamed with pleasure. "Well, how very kind! Shall I try this emerald-coloured one? It looks a bit larger than the rest. And here is a ruby sweet for you, dear, to match your robes."   
  
Abby accepted her toffee with hesitation. She held it in her hand, scrutinizing it, while Dumbledore eagerly unwrapped his. At the very moment when he would have popped the sweet into his mouth, she found she could contain herself no longer. Hogsmeade weekends had taught her long ago that all students, regardless of house affiliation, were capable of mischief and mayhem in every variety. Beyond that, Moody had loved to leave soap-flavoured sherbert lemons about the house when she was little. His intended lesson of "Never accept food from an unknown giver, lassie!" had been in her best interests, she knew, but she had never found it as amusing as he did.   
  
_And to think, I never imagined his paranoia was catching._   
  
"Sir!" she exclaimed. "Sir, considering we don't know the source of this kindness, that might be…_unwise_."   
  
Dumbledore paused. He held the toffee between two of his long fingers, balanced in mid-air. With slight air of dejection, he placed the sweet back on the desk. "A point well made, Abigail. I wish I had thought as much myself. Although I confess, I am still rather curious as to what the effects of partaking might be."   
  
He opened a drawer in his desk and brushed the remaining sweets inside with his other hand, smiling benignly. "Perhaps I will just set them aside for our next staff meeting. Now tell me, dear – how goes your weaving?"   
  
With that question, Abby's veneer of womanly maturity slipped, and she fought to keep herself from bouncing up and down in her chair. What she would give to have someone to whom she could speak freely and regularly about the cloak, someone to whom she could actually air her worries and suppositions and complaints _aloud_.   
  
Years of silence on the subject had made their mark, however. For Merlin's sake, she was even too fearful to talk about it to her _dog_. While Rosmerta knew of her calling, Dumbledore had thought it best that Abby not divulge the particulars. His office was the only place where Abby felt truly free to talk about her work, and while she knew Dumbledore thought highly of her, he could hardly want her nattering away in there every day.   
  
"Oh…oh, sir. I'm so close. So close. I've woven the twentieth Demiguise layer, and it's fusing quite nicely with the other nineteen. I've been waiting on that for a few weeks now. It will need a few potions and spells, as there are several non-invisible portions yet, but I think I may actually finish the dratted thing – sorry, sir – in the next few months. By then, I'll hopefully have come across what I need for the finishing."   
  
"The _finishing_…most interesting. Do you recall what your mother told you of this step?"   
  
Abby sighed. "She said the finishing of a cloak is unique to each Weaver. She said I would know how and when and why to complete the cloak, as well as to whom it belonged. I believe her words, sir, but frankly – I haven't a clue as to what I'm supposed to do at that point."   
  
Dumbledore chuckled softly as Abby carried on in mild frustration.   
  
"She said I would just know. Of course, I asked her how I would know that I knew when I knew, but that only made her laugh. Do – do you – what do you think, sir?"   
  
He leaned back in his chair thoughtfully, tapping his fingers on the smooth oak of the desk.   
  
"I have my ideas, child" he replied, after a pause, "but I believe they would be nowhere near as valuable and powerful as what might come from your own mind."   
  
Abby hung her head, thinking that she should have known better than to ask that last question. Dumbledore had not gained his reputation of eccentricity by conversing openly on ancient magical arts. Despite the things he _must_ know, he was not about to share them with her.   
  
_He's certainly one to let folks sort things out on their own. I'm sure he has his reasons, but it wouldn't hurt him to give the rest of us a clue once in a while. _  
  
Dumbledore continued on. "Abigail, may I inquire how the Privacy Charms on your home are functioning? I trust they have lessoned your, er, neighborly distractions?"   
  
Abby lifted up her eyes, smiling broadly.   
  
"They are _wonderful_, sir. I can't thank you enough. I've certainly tried to make peace with the Boormans, but…we're just not meant to be neighbors. It's such a relief not to have her peek in my kitchen window three times an hour. Well, she still peeks, but she can't see in now. They don't even bother to send their children to spy on me in the garden anymore, since they don't think I'm ever out there. Of course, they did start rumours about the Class A Non-Tradable plants I'm supposedly growing in the cottage, but Rosmerta squelched that talk rather quickly by cutting off Mr. Boorman's Firewhisky supply."   
  
Dumbledore laughed so hard at this last disclosure that his spectacles fell off. Abby was pleased at the sight. The headmaster, despite his air of liveliness, had looked much older of late. The laughter took off a few of his many years.   
  
"Rosmerta is a treasure, is she not?" he finally managed, wiping an eye with the back of his hand. "And I am thrilled to be of service to you, Abigail. For all you have given to your craft and our people, a little privacy is certainly well deserved. Though I will not say no to another pair of those socks, mind you. Now tell me, is there anything else new in your life? Are you enjoying the excitement in Hogsmeade?"   
  
"Well, the Tournament has certainly brought in some interesting clientele. Gladrags has been quite busy. Oh, and I think I've acquired a pet. Or, he's acquired me – I'm not which it is."   
  
Dumbledore clapped enthusiastically at that, startling a bedraggled looking Fawkes from his sleepy state across the room.   
  
"A pet? How delightful. I once tried to keep a Fwooper, I will have you know, but he and Fawkes proved incompatible. What sort of a pet is this, might I ask?"   
  
"A dog," Abby answered. "A big, black beast of a thing. Despite a few odd habits, he's quite lovable, appearances aside."   
  
If she had not known better, Abby might have thought that her remark caught the headmaster off guard. That could not be, though – Albus Dumbledore was not one to be caught unawares. But he did look at her peculiarly, one corner of his mouth rising in amusement.   
  
"Abigail, I am quite happy to hear that," he said. "I knew such a dog once. Kind and loyal he was…yes, very loyal indeed." He paused. "If I may change the subject, have you any information regarding our conversation of last summer?"   
  
Oh. Abby had almost forgotten that news in her enthusiasm over the cloak progress. She did have something to share with him, in fact. Pulling a few scraps of scribbled-on parchment from her robes, she smoothed them into a readable state.   
  
"Well, as I mentioned in an earlier owl, I've become better acquainted with Draco Malfoy, and I think I managed to sufficiently impress him with Gladrags' wares. I plan to invite him to a personal showing when our next shipment of expensive baubles arrives."   
  
Dumbledore nodded approvingly as he leaned back once more, folding his arms across his chest.   
  
"As for a means of watching Lucius Malfoy," she continued. "I don't know if this is at all plausible, but I had an idea – a bit of inspiration, really – while working on the cloak's nineteenth layer. I was researching the uses of the Absorption Potion, and I began to wonder if I could apply them to something other than an Invisibility Cloak."   
  
She hesitated, not sure if she sounded completely batty, but Dumbledore nodded, urging her on.   
  
"The threads could be treated to absorb _words_, sir – the conversations of its wearer. Then, once the proper spell was activated, the thread would Transfigure the words to ink, creating a record."   
  
She shoved the parchment pieces across the desk to Dumbledore, who adjusted his spectacles and began studying her scribbled notes intently.   
  
"I still have loads more research to do," she went on, "but I think it's altogether possible. Although, would you have to submit it to the Department of Mysteries for some sort of approval? Or a patent, perhaps? I'm certain they would need to verify it for indictment purposes, if it were to be used at a trial."   
  
Looking up from the notes, Dumbledore gave her a smile of endorsement, and Abby felt a thrill tingle through her arms. This was new magic – something no Weaver had attempted before. And if Albus Dumbledore thought the idea had merit…   
  
He passed the parchment back to her. "That is a promising idea, indeed, and if it did not pertain to important espionage techniques, I might nominate you for a Good Housewitching Award."   
  
_Does Witch Weekly still give out those things? I'm not sure I'd accept anything from that rag._   
  
Abby snickered into her hand, but quieted herself down when she realized the headmaster was still speaking.   
  
"However, Abigail, I will request that you lay this notion aside at present. I feel strongly that nothing," he paused for a moment, lightly emphasizing his next words, "_nothing_ should distract from your weaving. It is imperative that this skill not be lost from the wizarding people. Once your first cloak is completed and you feel sure of the process, you may pursue this. For now, I ask that concentrate on your weaving."   
  
Abby stared at the headmaster with a furrowed brow, but she nodded her head in compliance. Their conversation for the evening was evidently over, but what had he meant by that?   
  
_Of course, I'll concentrate on my weaving. After eighteen years, I've got quite good at concentrating on my weaving. Even though at times, I'm bloody tired of concentrating on my weaving._   
  
Dumbledore rose then, crossing around the desk to help Abby on with her winter cloak.   
  
"You had best be leaving before the night grows too late. I think you deserve a bit of refreshment for your journey, though – sugar quill? Do try the Strawberry-Mango Delight."   
  
_Blast winter…_   
  
The bone-chilling wind caused Abby to catch her breath. It stung at her throat, but the quicker she walked, the sooner she would be home. As on innumerable past occasions, she cursed the Department of Magical Transportation and their arcane licensing requirements. Given her academic history, Muggles would ride broomsticks before she would be allowed to Apparate.   
  
Her stomach growled as well, increasing her discomfort. Carried away in her conversation with Dumbledore, she had forgot about the Krum-Cake. He was probably having a good go at it right now, but she was starving.   
  
Sadly, the light from her wand did little to illuminate the darkness, and Abby stumbled occasionally on the rocks and dips in the road. Her pulse quickened as she saw what looked to be the light of a torch ahead. A large torch, for that matter. Abby sped up. She did not particularly fancy walking alone on a dark path that lay uncomfortably close the Forbidden Forest. If the light ahead came from a villager's torch, then perhaps she would have some company. It appeared as though the figure was now heading toward her. But wait – the torch appeared to have been extinguished. Now it flared up again.   
  
As the light approached, Abby observed that the flame was low to the ground, and not in the position of a held torch. And, most disconcertingly of all, it was not a person wielding it… Whatever the thing was, it scuttled along the path, covered with some sort of shell and (she noted in growing horror) a large sting, pinchers, many legs, and…   
  
Abby's mind emptied itself of all sane thought as the dark form approached. Her legs trembled and her heart pounded terribly, but the remainder of her body felt rooted to the ground. Should she run? Stay still? Would the creature ignore her? But then a burst of fire shot forth from the thing's back end, and Abby realized that to stay in its path would be extremely foolish, to say the least.   
  
Gathering what courage she could muster, Abby threw herself off the road and darted into the bordering woods. The creature followed, but more slowly. Without thinking of the consequences, Abby turned her head to gauge the distance between them. As she did, her cloak caught on some low brush; it ripping halfway off of her, sending her careening to the ground. Her head met a protruding tree root with a sickening thud.   
  
Abby groaned in misery. A painful haze clouded her eyes, and she struggled in vain to lift herself. The last things she took in before her head met the earth again were a lick of smoke, rising from the hem of her cloak, and what sounded, from a distance, like the barking of a dog...   
  
_A/N: The ancient Muggle saying Dumbledore references is Proverbs 16:18. I confess to sharing Dumbledore's fondness for anything strawberry-mango flavoured._


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**   
  
_Ummph!_   
  
The crushing heaviness of something falling on her legs brought Abby to her senses, though not fully. She groaned in pain, thrashing awkwardly against the weight, but her eyes would not focus on the muddled figures around her. The sensation lasted for just a moment, though, and then something began to pull at her cloak, disentangling it from the underbrush. After a forceful rip, the garment fell slack against her. Still, the remaining sounds and images – small explosions, that orange blur again, and a deep, menacing snarl – were too much for Abby to take in. Dazed, she shut her eyes once more.   
  
A cold, wet nudge to the face brought her back to reality the next time. She gave a garbled yell and yanked her head away from whatever was prodding her, but when she swung her arm out to bat at the thing, it connected with a familiar tangle of fur. Snuffles. It was Snuffles.   
  
Abby rolled over to her side, wincing in pain as she pushed herself to a sitting position and tried to stand. Her legs buckled under her and she cried out in frustration, striking the hard ground with her hand. The adrenaline of the moment was fast fading, giving her body an unpleasant reminder of the harsh cold. She also had the feeling that her robes were letting in more air than they were supposed to, and her shredded cloak did not help matters, either. Now, her legs were being bloody uncooperative.   
  
In a moment, Snuffles was at her side. Abby stared blankly into his pale eyes before she understood his intentions. He lowered his body, and she grabbed hold of his fur. When he rose, she was able to get to her knees. He stood perfectly still as she struggled to her feet. In turns pulling on the ragged edge of her cloak and pushing her from behind, the dog began to guide her home.   
  
With a groan, Abby stumbled through the door of her cottage and fell to the hearthrug, struggling for air. Her head throbbed terribly and a cut on her arm held a vicious sting, but she did not have the strength to move. She let her body sink into the softness, oblivious to anything else around her, and did not stir until she heard the sound of the door shutting. Slowly, Abby moved her head and saw that Snuffles had followed her into the cottage. He stood off to the side, whimpering and shivering from the cold. Lifting a weary hand, she gestured for him to come to the fire. As he padded over and lay down beside her, she reached up and patted his head.   
  
"Good boy…good boy…" she mumbled, before falling back onto the rug and drifting into an exhausted sleep.   
  
Though the headache did not allow her to sleep for long, Abby was grateful for the brief rest when her eyes opened again. If nothing else, she could once more feel her limbs. Intent on finding her wand, she edged her aching body away from Snuffles and off the rug, then stood up gingerly, not yet trusting her legs in full. With slow, shuffling steps she moved across the room to the kitchen table. Her head throbbed, but she could not cast a Pain-Relief Spell without her wand…   
  
_Where in Merlin's name did that thing go?_   
  
Her mind whirred, scanning for possibilities, but then Abby covered her mouth with her hand and gasped. Oh, _no_…she had taken it to Hogwarts, of course, and had used it to light her way home. The first fall had knocked it out of her hand, and in her frantic state, she had not thought to search for it before she and Snuffles fled. He had propelled her home in the dark. The thought became too much to bear, and with a choking sob, Abby sunk her head into her arms. The fire-shooting creature was probably using it for kindling right now.   
  
After a tear-filled minute, Abby paused to wipe the wetness off her face. With no handkerchief within reach, she used her sleeve, which soon became a sodden mess. She gave a short laugh at the sight.   
  
_Not exactly the picture of high fashion now, am I? _  
  
Abby took in a deep gulp of air, trying to calm her breathing. She looked over at Snuffles, who had somehow managed to doze, unperturbed, through all her wailing. Despite her misery, she laughed again as he let out an especially loud snore. An odd creature, that dog. Perhaps this was all in a day's duty for him – a day's _messy_ duty, certainly. Abby's eyes backtracked along the trail Snuffles had left from the front door, taking in muddy paw prints, bits of dead grass and leaves, and a stick of some sort… Her heart stopped for a moment, and the smile dropped from her face as she peered more closely. No, it was not a stick. It was _her wand_.   
  
Forgetting her aches, Abby crossed swiftly to the door and snatched up the willow shaft, eyes wide. She stared at the wand in disbelief, turning it over and over in her hands, running her fingers down the length of it. As she did, she noticed several markings marring the wood. She held the wand up to the firelight for closer inspection. Teeth marks. Snuffles must have brought it back. She stared in amazement at the slumbering form of the black dog.   
  
_Dumbledore was right…he is the loyal sort._   
  
So as not to wake her rescuer, Abby whispered as she pointed the wand at her head and incanted, _"Ibuprofus!"_ In seconds, the pain began to ebb. She cast the spell again at her arm, viewing the state of her robes for the first time since arriving home. They were covered in forest debris, and the lower portions were scorched and torn. Holes were burned clear though in several areas. Abby closed her eyes and let out a shaky breath. Fortunately, the robes had been heavy and quite full in the skirt. Had they been any closer to her body, she would have surely been burned.   
  
She looked back at Snuffles again. He was in a dead slumber, but he let out a low whine now and again that sounded terribly sad. Abby filled a dish with cold water and walked back to the fireplace, setting it a few feet away from him. She stood there for a moment, then, crouching down, she stroked lightly behind his ears. Examining his coat, she saw several large, singed patches. The big brute had most likely saved her life. She also could not help but notice, while cursing herself for the shallow thought, that his filthy, matted fur was dirtying her rug in a most appalling fashion.   
  
She winced as she rose to her feet, both from a lingering ache where her hip had met the hard earth, and from the sight of her own disheveled hair. Mingled with the light-brown strands were bits of dirt and a random twig or two. Wild thoughts of what her customers might say if she were to arrive at Gladrags in such a state flashed through her mind, causing her to smile – Miss Abigail Loomis was nothing if not always impeccably groomed. They would probably think she had succumbed to the old head injury and had taken up with a band of wood sprites.   
  
But as much as she wanted to wash her own hair, Abby realized the practicality of seeing to Snuffles first. Getting that bear of a dog clean could be a dirty business. Leaving him by the fire, she went into to her bedroom and on to the bathroom. Stacked high in a basket on the counter were dozens of small bottles, through which she began to rummage. Manufacturers of wizarding personal care products often sent her samples of their latest potions, and surely there was something in here she could use. Her hand latched onto an amethyst-hued, cork-topped bottle, which she held up to her eyes.   
  
_"Gilderoy Lockhart's Scrubbly Bubbly, in Essence of Raspberry"? No, I don't think Snuffles would take too kindly to that…_   
  
At last locating a suitable, relatively unscented soap, Abby ran several inches of water in the tub. She warmed the water with her wand, watching the suds rise high, and placed several towels that had been treated with Stain-Away Solution nearby. As her untidy hair kept falling in her face, she gathered it back and secured it into a twist with a tap of her wand. She then rolled up the sleeves of her robe as best she could and went back to the front room, mulling over how she was going to coerce this rather large animal into her rather small bathroom to take a bath.   
  
The sound of running water must have stirred him, because Snuffles raised his head blearily when she entered the room. Realizing that his sleepiness might act in her favor, Abby moved swiftly. She looped her arms under his front legs, gently urging him onto his feet, then with soft, hushing sounds, set him on the path to her room.   
  
Staring at the foam-filled tub, Snuffles seemed to sense that something was afoot. His ears twitched, and he looked about with apprehensive eyes. Abby followed him in, bravely deciding to cut off his escape route by shutting the door behind her. Before he could fully comprehend what was taking place, she lifted up the dog's front legs and slid them over the porcelain edge of the tub, which, luckily, lay low to the ground. With a distinctly unladylike grunt, she seized him around the middle and somehow managed to propel the rest of his furry mass into the water.   
  
Snuffles was most certainly lucid now. Covered up to his chin in bubbles, he opened his pale eyes wide. He crouched, ready to leap out of the tub, but Abby blocked his path.   
  
"Oh…no, no, no, my good friend. This is the least I can do for you, after tonight. Now, if you'll just…"   
  
_Splash! _  
  
A wave of dirty, soapy water rose to the tub's edge and cascaded over, soaking Abby's legs and feet. Snuffles had attempted to turn around while in the tub and jump from the other end. Abby looked in dismay at the splattered walls and puddled floor, and her nostrils flared in growing anger.   
  
"Now, that certainly was not called for! This could be much worse, you know. I could have you smelling of raspberries right about now," she said, her voice rising in irritation. Keeping one eye on the dog, she glanced at her wand, which rested near the sink. "I might just throw a quick Shampoo Spell on your coat and be done with it – "   
  
The teeth marks on the wand caught her eye, and as she recalled the circumstances of their making, her face softened. Snuffles seemed to sense that her guard was down. He seized the opportunity and lowered his haunches, ready to spring from the tub, but Abby was quicker. She lunged forward, throwing her arms around his neck and forcing him back into the water. She might have succeeded in keeping him there, had her elbow not connected sharply with the tub's edge.   
  
_"Aaaarrggghh!!!"_   
  
Abby screwed her eyes shut and clung to her elbow with her other hand, trying to force the pain out of it. It hurt abominably, but now that she knew what Snuffles was capable of, she dared not leave him unattended. She backed towards the sink with slow, cautious steps, keeping a wary eye cracked. The dog was looking at her with an expression that almost seemed sympathetic, but she knew he was not to be trusted. Not for a moment.   
  
Her suspicions were soon confirmed. Snuffles pulled back to spring again, and Abby darted forward to stop him. Unfortunately, the slippery bathroom floor had also decided to thwart her. Her feet flew, leaving her to land most ungracefully on her posterior. Snuffles, his front paws perched on top of the tub, peered down at her uneasily. His eyes widened as he saw Abby's wand and her glowering face, both quite near and directed unerringly at him.   
  
Abby moved a sopping strand of hair from her face with slow deliberation. The room was quiet, but for her heavy breath and the steady drip of water from Snuffles' paws. Her voice was low and measured, but filled with an unmistakable fury. She held her extended wand hand very, very steady.   
  
"_Stay…still…now…_or by Hogwarts, I'll turn you into a kitten – a _girl_ kitten – and I'll have no compunction about leaving you that way."   
  
To his credit, Snuffles meekly acquiesced, and after several spells and a few cautious forays with a long-handled scrub brush, the task was complete. After casting yet another Pain-Relief Spell (on her elbow, this time) Abby directed the dog to lie down on a quilt that she had placed in front of the fire, and then she set off to tidy up herself and the bathroom as best she could. When she returned, clean and dressed in fresh robes, she started in surprise. Snuffles was curled up on the quilt, just as he was when she had left him, but placed neatly before him was a pair of tattered house slippers.   
  
Abby threw back her head and laughed, running her fingers though her hair. She had relinquished the hope of ever finding those slippers again. He must have done some rummaging while she was gone.   
  
_Apparently, he's making **some** effort at becoming properly domesticated!_   
  
"Trying to make amends, are you?" she chuckled, reaching down to scratch his ears. "You're _partially_ forgiven. That was quite the experience, wasn't it? Nothing I'd care to repeat anytime soon, though. Take care not to dirty yourself up again, or you'll be looking for a new home."   
  
Snuffles wagged his tail as Abby sat next to him, stroking his head. "Mangy cur," she murmured with affection. The two were quiet for a moment, enjoying the warmth of the fire. Abby took the chance to look over the dog's coat again. Clean, it was greatly improved, but the singed portions were still rough and snarled. She was not sure if she dared another beautification project at this juncture, but Snuffles seemed docile enough. Rising from the ground, she walked over to her worktable, sifting through piles of swatches, moving aside bolts of fabric, and lifting up stacks of failed product ventures ("Heroic Hankies", meant for unexpected moments of female weepiness. Sadly, they never caught on with the young men of Hogwarts…).   
  
_Where is that ruddy thing? I saw it here just the other day… _  
  
Finally, under the last stack, she located a large, wide-toothed wooden comb she sometimes used to card wool. From her workbasket, she gathered her largest pair of shears. Snuffles eyed the objects in her hands with hesitation, perhaps still intimidated by her earlier threat, but he remained motionless as Abby sat down again.   
  
"Shhh…" she said soothingly, "Help me with this, and I'll bring you a steak tomorrow. The biggest steak Mr. Cleaves has in the shop…"   
  
Snuffles emitted a few yelps when Abby encountered some nasty tangles, but did not bolt away as she worked her way methodically though his coat, pulling through the knots and trimming off the burnt patches. Grateful again for her wand, she whisked the scattered fur off the quilt and into the dustbin with magical ease. When finished, she sat back on her heels to inspect her work.   
  
"Short and clean – quite becoming on you, my friend."   
  
The dog laid his head down on the quilt, his eyelids flickering with fatigue. Abby gazed at him in slight bewilderment, expecting him to make a beeline for the door. Yet he made no attempt to move, let alone leave the cottage.   
  
_So, a run-in with a deadly fire-blasting creature is all it takes to get him to stay overnight… _  
  
Abby reached forward and patted his head once more, before rising to her feet. Her own eyelids were becoming terribly heavy, and the next workday was already closer than she cared to think.   
  
"Good night, then, and…thank you, Snuffles."   
  
With one hand over her yawning mouth, she walked back to her bedroom. A loud canine snore reached her ears as she turned to close the door behind her, and she saw, with weary amusement, that the dog was already asleep.   
  
Abby lifted her head off the pillow the next morning to the realization that she was going to be very, very late for work. She threw back the quilt and leapt to her wardrobe.   
  
Fortunately, the first pair of robes she came across was clean and mended. (Missing buttons and loose hems were often the last thing she wanted to be bothered with at the end of the day.) Simple, though stylishly cut, and dyed a deep green, the robes suited her eyes nicely. If only her mirror would be a little more obliging.   
  
This particular mirror, Gertie, had always out of sorts with the others at Gladrags; a bit of a tomboy, she had never been a good fit. Abby's solution at the time had been to take Gertie home one evening in frustration. It was a decision she now often regretted, especially on mornings such as this.   
  
"Prettying yourself up again, are you?" the mirror taunted. "Just who are you trying to impress, Abigail?"   
  
Abby ignored the jibe, cracking open the bedroom door to see if Snuffles was still in the cottage. He raised his head drowsily at the sound and looked at her, then placed his head down on his front paws. Smiling, Abby left the door open and turned back to the task at hand.   
  
Gertie was a bit miffed at being dismissed. "Think you've got something to prove to them? All this fluff with your hair and your robes…"   
  
The mirror waggled evasively from side to side as Abby combed her part and pulled the hair back into a sleek chignon at the base of her neck. No matter – she could have done it with her eyes closed. It was all part of the familiar, sometimes tiresome routine.   
  
Gertie carried on, becoming increasingly shirty. "Trying to catch a _man_ by painting yourself up like you do? Hasn't worked yet, now, has it?"   
  
With a sigh, Abby opened her compact and began making up her face by rote. At times that band of wood sprites sounded quite appealing. She cut Gertie off before the next harangue began.   
  
"Bugger off, will you? It befits – " she said, assuming a tone of false loftiness while applying tint to her lips, " – a woman of my profession. I have a social responsibility to the ladies of Hogsmeade."   
  
Abby glanced to her right. Snuffles was watching the exchange from his bed near the fire. "Snuffles, be very grateful you're a dog. There'll be none of this silliness for you."   
  
She turned back to the mirror. "As for you – I'm going to ask Rosmerta if I may relocate you to The Three Broomsticks. To the _men's loo_. Consider yourself warned."   
  
Abby snapped the compact shut and rushed into the main room, sweeping her cloak, bag, and other possessions into her arms. She held her breath as her eyes swept the room once more for anything she might have forgotten, and then exhaled with a quick nod.   
  
"All right, then – let's be off. I'll follow you out the back."   
  
Muttering hexes and pestilence upon the Department of Magical Transportation, Abby snatched an apple from a bowl on the kitchen table and hurried herself and the dog out the door.   
  
Five days. It had been five days. Five days since the unknown flame-thing had chased her into the forest, and five days since she had last seen her dog.   
  
A group of giggling girls, moving as a cluster through the crowded showroom, bumped into Abby and caused her to loose her train of thought. After giving them a forgiving smile, she lowered her head and twisted her mouth wryly.   
  
_It's a good thing **I'm** the shop manager – I won't have to sack myself for inattentiveness._   
  
She was rather grateful for the commotion of the Hogsmeade weekend, the first of the school year. It kept her mind off other matters and was actually a bit of fun. She prided herself on speaking passable French to several of the visiting students of Beauxbatons Academy. The students from Durmstrang seemed more reticent, but many of them warmed up to her interest in their stay at Hogwarts.   
  
Abby's robes swished about her ankles as she twisted through the crowd. As her assistants were doing a fabulous job of seeing to the patrons, she allowed herself the luxury of people-watching: there were the sixth and seventh-years, nonchalant with familiarity; the fourth and fifth-years, still eager and inquisitive; and the newest crop of third-years, in the initial throes of excitement at being allowed into Hogsmeade. Her eyes trailed over to the group of girls that had passed her earlier; they now stood near the dress robes, chattering and gesticulating with wild exuberance. A head of thick, vibrantly red hair stood in their midst – the face it belonged to laughed with the rest, but was more subdued. From time to time, the girl would glance at the lustrous fabrics nearby, then back at own robes.   
  
_Oh, that can only be Ginny Weasley._   
  
Bill and Charlie had shown her pictures of a newborn Ginny many, many years ago. It was not hard to recall, as the birth of the first Weasley girl had been a much talked-about event in wizarding circles. As a matter of fact, the regulars of The Three Broomsticks had had quite a large pot going as to whether or not Molly and Arthur would end up yet another son. On impulse, Abby decided she wanted to meet the youngest Weasley. She slipped through the crowd with practiced ease and approached the girls.   
  
"Hello, ladies – I'm Abigail Loomis, general manager of Gladrags. May I help you with anything?"   
  
A girl with a long blonde braid giggled furiously at being addressed, looking around her companions for their encouragement.   
  
"Does Kirley McCormack really shop here?" she queried breathlessly.   
  
Abby smiled patiently. It was the fifth time she had been asked that very question today, but the giddy responses were always so entertaining, it was worth her time to answer.   
  
"He does, on occasion, but he usually doesn't have the time when he's on tour. Most often, we just send things to him. It's wonderful exposure for Gladrags, _and_, he helped us sign a contract with his sister, Meaghan, as a spokeswitch."   
  
An eruption of squeals ensued. Abby looked around worriedly, in slight fear that the pitch might cause damage to the shop windows. Ginny laughed good-naturedly with the rest, but looked at her friends as if they had gone a bit mad. Abby caught her eye and winked, which seemed to startle Ginny for a moment, until she grinned back.   
  
The dark-haired girl to Ginny's right carried on with glazed eyes. "Oh, I do fancy him! Those eyes, and that name… When I saw the Weird Sisters perform over holiday, I would have sworn – really! – that he looked right at me. He was wearing this lovely turtleneck, and then he smiled…" She broke off in a dreamy sigh, then snickered. "But he's nothing to a certain Triwizard Champion, is he, Ginny?"   
  
Ginny's blush was adorable to Abby, but the girl's eyes shot heated daggers at her friends. "Stuff it, Ruthie," she muttered.   
  
The girls seemed to take her annoyance as an affirmation, and they collapsed into giggles again. Abby sensed a discomfort on poor Ginny's part, and decided to intervene.   
  
_Triwizard Champion? Unless she's terribly smitten with Viktor Krum, that would mean the Diggory boy or…_   
  
"Dears, I wonder if I might beg your assistance." The girls stopped their laughter, their eyes widening. "Could you follow me over here, please?"   
  
Abby walked over to a nearby counter, the girls trailing inquisitively behind. Reaching behind the counter, she pulled out a box overflowing with glittering bottles.   
  
"Sleekeazy's just sent me an assortment of their latest potions. They do that fairly often, you understand – they like to get our opinions before they put things out on the market. But it's a busy season for Gladrags right now, and I really don't have the time to look through all this. Might I ask you young ladies to give them a try? Ruthie, is it? Let me give you this."   
  
She held out a violet-coloured bottle, and Ruthie examined the label with bated breath.   
  
_"Gilderoy Lockhart's Curli-Cutie Hair Tonic!"_ She let out a gasp. "Ooooh, I remember Professor Lockhart. He signed every one of my schoolbooks for me, and my class notes, and the issue of Teen Witch that had him on the cover, and my…" Her voice trailed off as she lost herself in faraway thoughts.   
  
Abby extended another bottle to the wavy-haired girl next to Ruthie. "You, too, have lovely hair, and I think this will suit you. It might be a bit messy, though, so why don't you lend them a hand," she said, turning to the girl with the long blond braid. "There's a washroom for customers in the back – Chanella can lead you to it. I'd be ever so grateful for your help."   
  
Clutching their bottles and nodding excitedly, the girls scampered off, barely noticing that they had left Ginny behind.   
  
"You must be Ginny Weasley," Abby said gently.   
  
Ginny's eyes were downcast, her fingers twisting a strand of fiery hair. "How did you know?" she said with dejection, as if she already knew the answer.   
  
"Not all of us are blessed with such hair!"   
  
Ginny looked up and blushed again, showing a small smile.   
  
"But other than that, I used to have a laugh with Bill and Charlie from time to time when they were at Hogwarts. They were certainly excited when you were born." She tactfully refrained from mentioning that they had also shown pictures of Ginny in her nappies to most of Hogsmeade. "I've met Percy but once or twice, although Fred and George pester me fairly often. They're convinced I have access to all sorts of Class B Restricted Textiles – you know, Flame-Free Robes, Dissolving Cloth, Suction Socks, and the like."   
  
Ginny giggled, lowering her reserve even more. "Well, I can threaten to tell Mum if they don't lay off – you'd best be careful, Miss Loomis, or they'll be asking you to get them an Invisibility Cloak next."   
  
Although years of practice enabled Abby to keep her face impassive, her breath caught in her throat.   
  
_She doesn't know – it was just a remark. She doesn't know._   
  
Quickly recovering, Abby handed Ginny an aquamarine-coloured bottle with _"Gilderoy Lockhart's Mist-Ick! Fabric Tint"_ on its label in ornate silver lettering. Ginny cocked her head and looked at the bottle, puzzled. "Um, Miss Loomis, isn't Professor Lockhart, well…I don't know how to say this…isn't he – ?"   
  
Abby leaned in with a wicked smirk.   
  
"Shh…he is," she whispered conspiratorially. "But he's licensed his name and likeness to Sleekeazy's to help pay the bills at St. Mungo's. You didn't hear it here, though."   
  
Ginny grinned, wrinkling her nose at bottle. "'Mist-Ick'? What sort of name like that?"   
  
"It certainly _smells_ awful! I'm going to recommend that they re-label it, if they want Gladrags to carry the stuff. But if you've studied Scenting Smells, you'll be just fine. May I give it a try?" she asked, gesturing at Ginny's sleeve.   
  
With only the slightest hesitation, Ginny held out her arm. Muttering _"Black!"_ under her breath, Abby grasped the hem and pumped a tiny spray of fuchsia mist onto the cloth. The vapors evaporated upon contact, transforming the faded surface to a gleaming black. Ginny gasped in delight.   
  
"Miss Loomis! It changed! Will – will it stay like that?"   
  
"It should! Just cast a Scenting Spell when you're done with the potion, let the elves give them a good laundering, and the robes will be ready to wear in no time. Here dear, take a few more – just be sure to let me know how they work for you so I can pass on your feedback. I really do appreciate your help."   
  
The other three girls returned as Ginny was pocketing the bottles, their shiny tresses now bouncing in perfect curlicues on their shoulders (the third girl had loosened her braid and taken part in the fun herself). They squealed their thanks and announced their intention to leave for The Three Broomsticks immediately, desirous to test out their new coiffures. Abby took down all their names and promised to obtain Kirley McCormack's autograph for them on his next visit. Ginny turned and gave Abby a happy wave goodbye as the other girls swept her out the door in a giggling flurry.   
  
Abby craned her neck out the window as they departed, scanning the busy street, hoping for a glimpse of an Invisibility Cloak, and wondering again where on earth her dog had got himself to.   
  
Hogsmeade weekends were always draining, but this Saturday had been even busier than usual, due to the frenzy of the Triwizard Tournament. The First Task was scheduled for the upcoming Tuesday, and the village had teemed that day with Ministry officials and wizarding folk of all sorts.   
  
Gladrags had chosen to extend business hours for the occasion, and by the time the last customer had been gently shooed from the shop, the hour was already quite late. When Abby had found Chanella asleep on the chaise lounge, curled up with a bolt of fabric, she decided to show mercy and send the shop assistants home. But then straightening the disarray of the showroom had taken another hour, and then there had been the business of taking inventory. Now, it was well past one o'clock in the morning, and she was completely knackered.   
  
_Next time, the assistants are going to **stay**._   
  
Abby looked around the darkened showroom once more. She did love this place, probably more than she cared to admit. For a moment, she was tempted to curl up on the chaise herself and sleep the night away. She should return to the cottage, though. There was always the chance that Snuffles might have returned. He might need some water, or the promised steak, which was still in the icebox. Tossing into the dustbin a handful of badges that had littered the floor _("Potter Stinks" – how rude)_, she left the shop and locked the door behind her.   
  
The walk home was cold, cold, cold. Abby shivered as she scurried around the last turn.   
  
The Boorman's house was quiet, thank Merlin. She might actually be able to get some decent rest. Their cousins from Cornwall had recently come for a visit, and the resulting nightly ruckus had seriously interrupted Abby's sleep. They were probably at The Hog's Head having a pint or two (or twelve) right now, as Rosmerta no longer welcomed their presence at The Three Broomsticks.   
  
As Abby moved to open the cottage door, an unexpected creak halted her hand. Startled, she looked over her shoulder at the Boormans' front door, which seemed to be cracking open, inch by inch. She screwed her eyes together, peering into the darkness, but as the exiting figure grew clearer, her face fell. A wounded gasp escaped her lips. Something, not someone, was coming out of the Boormans' home, and though the night was very dark indeed, she knew she had only seen one dog of that shape and size before.   
  
A flurry of emotions tangled inside her exhausted mind – confusion, disbelief, and …hurt. Abby watched the figure slink off into the darkness before she went inside, only to meet another night of fitful sleep.   
  
_I'll bathe a troll before I let that dog near my bathtub again… _  
  
Now, almost a week and a half after the incident, Abby was still finding nooks and crannies where Snuffles' dirt had settled in throughout the bathroom. The tub itself had taken on an unbecoming grayish-brown cast that seemed impervious to any amount of Mrs. Skowers' All-Purpose Magical Mess Remover. Brow furrowed, Abby turned a third bottle of the stuff over and over in her hands, looking for an address to which she might owl an angry complaint. When she discovered that the address was printed in type so small as to discourage a disgruntled customer from writing a letter at all, she threw the bottle in the dustbin with the first two and left to get some air.   
  
Abby had raced home that night in a wet, chilling storm, which had only exacerbated an already foul temper. She had wanted to weave once she was at home, but had found herself devoid of ideas. Despite her best efforts with potions, spells, and thread, large gaps of non-invisibility remained on the cloth's surface. She had then tried to distract herself with some light housekeeping, but that endeavor was now coming to naught.   
  
To see the Invisibility Cloak so nearly completed, yet still so elusive, weighed on Abby's nerves in a frustrating manner. The time for the finishing would soon come, and she was still without a clue as to what needed to be done. She desperately wished for a mother to hold her, stroke her hair, and whisper that all would be well. She could begin work on her other project, but she found it difficult to concentrate when so many questions still remained about the cloak.   
  
And then there was the matter of Lucius Malfoy.   
  
Lucius Malfoy and his wife, Narcissa, had visited Gladrags that afternoon. Abby had heard of Lucius often enough, but she was taken aback by the command his sleek, well-groomed presence held. She usually knew, within a minute of meeting a customer, which of a handful of well-practiced fronts she might use. She might be a chatty friend, a knowledgeable fashion authority, or in the case of Draco Malfoy, a gratefully subservient seamstress. She sensed she might have to come up with something altogether different for Draco's father.   
  
"My son was satisfied with the treatment he received here," were his first words, after he and Narcissa entered the shop. Abby welcomed them graciously and introduced herself.   
  
Lucius' eyebrow rose slowly upon hearing her name. "A relation to Hollister Loomis, I presume?" he asked.   
  
She gave a small nod of affirmation, noting that her father was not able to come to Hogsmeade often. Lucius' eyes flit around the showroom. "I see," he said, as if to agree that she was barely worth the trouble.   
  
(Her father's absence had long provided Abby with a perfect ruse, although it was one she often felt she could live without. She knew the rumours – Hollister Loomis, after eighteen years, was still vaguely ashamed of his daughter and her dismissal from Hogwarts. Odd, how people still clung to that, despite her modest success in managing the Gladrags shop. She might be eighty-seven years old, she once scoffed to Madam Rosmerta, and most of the village would still see her as the young girl who came to Hogsmeade under unfortunate circumstances.)   
  
Abby then inquired if Madam Malfoy would like to view some of the lovely robes on display, or if she would be interested in custom design.   
  
Lucius gave the answer. _"Custom,"_ he intoned, "and I dare hope I will not have to repeat myself on that point."   
  
The remainder of the visit passed by without incident. Lucius followed without word while Abby led the couple to a back showroom and began laying out trims, fabrics, clasps, and sketches. Narcissa, while certainly aloof, had not been entirely disagreeable, even engaging in a pleasant exchange on the finer points of lace from wizarding Belgium. Still, after they left, Abby felt more than a little unsettled about the task Dumbledore had set before her.   
  
All cleaning attempts over for the evening, Abby exited out the back door of her cottage and crossed through the garden, sitting down at the stone bench. Dumbledore's charms created a warm, protective bubble in which she could sit and observe the blustering storm. With her was a scone purchased at Madam Puddifoot's earlier that day. It was no longer warm, obviously, but she was hungry enough not to care. She broke open the scone, but a glimpse of something small and dark interrupted her first bite. She leaned in for closer inspection, and then gave an exasperated groan. Raisins. She hated raisins, thanks to Alastor Moody and his penchant for lessons in food-based paranoia. This day could get any worse. At that thought, Abby heard a slight creak at the back gate, which she had left ajar out of habit. Well, perhaps it could.   
  
A gigantic lump of wet dog poked his head past the cast iron and look around for a few seconds before fixing his eyes on Abby. His tail wagged in happy relief and he began to advance toward her, but her steely, uninviting gaze seemed to stop him.   
  
"Hullo, Snuffles," she said, her voice tight.   
  
She looked up at the sleet and rain that poured down overhead, ending just before the roof of her cottage, and gave a dry laugh.   
  
"You truly are a 'fair-weather friend', aren't you? What's the matter – the Boormans stopped feeding you, and so you thought you'd try your chances here tonight?"   
  
Peevishly, Abby snatched a clump of raisins from the scone and threw it toward the dog. In an atypical display of good aim, it bounced off the top of his head. Snuffles first look was of shock; then, with hackles raised, he began to emit a low, rather threatening growl.   
  
"What, that isn't good enough for you? Well, there was a steak waiting for you – _ten days_ waiting for you, for that matter."   
  
Abby ignored his snarling and continued to maul her scone. Her emotions were unraveling faster than she could keep them together. She was not scared of Snuffles, even though she knew it was ridiculous to vent her anger at him. He was a dog, for Merlin's sake – seriously, what did she expect? Passionate allegiance? Deep, unswerving fidelity? It was childish to be mad, but she threw another raisin at him, all the same.   
  
"Really Snuffles, I don't mind. Just toss me aside like a stale crumpet. Noooo, I don't mind at all. I don't give a _flaming Quaffle._ That "wizard's best friend" talk is no more than a bunch of bunk, is it?"   
  
Dumbledore's words were running through her head at this point, serving only to raise her ire further. "Yes, loyal to the core, aren't you, Snuffles?" she said bitingly, her voice faltering only for a moment. "You know what sort those people are, how they treat me, and yet you – you still – "   
  
She now despised raisins with every fiber of her being, and she ripped them out of the scone in violent pinches, hurling them in every direction. The nasty things might as well be minions of Voldemort himself. But when she paused to hunt down a deeply embedded cluster, Abby suddenly realized that Snuffles was no longer growling. When she looked up from the mangled scone, she saw that Snuffles was, in fact, _no longer there._ In his place was a man, a man with dark, sopping hair and livid eyes.   
  
His hair was no longer filthy and tangled, nor was his face as drawn and emaciated as the one she had seen on countless lampposts and covers of the _Daily Prophet_ some time ago. Still, Abby knew his identity at once. Long ago, he had sauntered down the corridors of Hogwarts, unfettered and carefree. Now he glared at her fiercely, drops of water slowly falling from his face.   
  
"I am _not_ a fair-weather friend," spat Sirius Black.   
  
_A/N: I promise, the next chapter will be fully cliffhanger-free!_


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**   
  
_A/N: Dedicated to **Circee** and **Catherine**, who honoured me with truly fabulous outtakes. If you haven't read Circee's "Bathing Sirius" yet, do so now! And as soon as you're done with this chapter, go and read Catherine's "Cocoa and Sympathy"._   
  
Abby gasped. She gaped. She blinked her eyes again and again. Her mouth moved woodenly, with no words or even sounds coming forth. Her stomach gave an awful lurch. The prodigal dog was gone, and in his place stood the man generally considered to be the most dangerous wizarding criminal alive. And she had just pelted him with raisins.   
  
Dizzy and dumbfounded, she tore her eyes away from the man and rose to her feet, not knowing exactly where she was going to go, but feeling that she should leave before anything else in the garden chose to transform. Her sanity was in no position to find out that her favourite rosebush was actually a Quintaped in hiding. Unfortunately, her legs wobbled as she cleared the corner of the bench, and her left knee met the stone with a sharp crack. She cried out in pain as she fell to the ground, but threw herself forward as he rushed toward her.   
  
"Let me help you – "   
  
Abby stumbled to a half-standing position, keeping herself out of his reach. He stepped ahead of her and grabbed her elbow, which she tried to wrest away.   
  
"_Don't touch me!_ Please, just let me alone!"   
  
He kept his hold on her elbow despite her protests, keeping her steady as she made for the cottage.   
  
"I'll get the door – "   
  
"_Argghh_ – move, will you!"   
  
Abby's face contorted as the nerves in her leg continued to feel every bit of the collision. She was desperate for her wand, not only for a Pain-Relief Spell, but for self-defense. Sirius Black was not helping matters any; he blocked her path, rattling the door in vain.   
  
"I – I can't open it. Is it locked?"   
  
Exasperation overcame Abby's pain and fear. "I _know_ you can't open it, which is precisely why I told you to move! Now stand aside – "   
  
She threw her shoulder into him, pushing him away. The door opened easily at her touch, and she lurched inside, clutching her knee. Her wand, she noticed with sudden horror, lay on the kitchen table, still several paces away. She shook when she realized that Black was coming toward her, but he crossed wordlessly to the table and retrieved the wand. Snatching it from his hand, Abby quickly cast the spell and sank against the wall as the pain dissipated from her knee. When she cracked an eye open a moment later, she saw him staring at her – intent, although the ferocity was now gone from his eyes. How odd. In fact, his look was more of…concern, much like Snuffles' expressions had been. Wait, he _was_ Snuffles.   
  
Black extended a cautious (and dirty) hand, which Abby accepted with even more caution to stand up. His stance was tense, as though he feared that she, her knee now operable, might soon shriek and flee his presence. She considered that a viable option herself, but she stayed her place as the convict searched her countenance, waiting for a reaction.   
  
Although free from pain, Abby's knees trembled at the sight before her. Sirius Black, the murderer, the lunatic, the Ministry of Magic's most wanted. The crimes to his name were public knowledge. Still, he was not brandishing a pickax and a maniacal grin – he did not even have a wand, as far as she could tell. If he had really wanted to kill her, there had been plenty of opportunities before this, and he had actually been more of an _annoyance_ than a menace as she had tried to get inside the cottage. Abby finally managed a weak half-smile, still not taking her eyes off of him.   
  
"I seem to be casting that spell fairly frequently in your presence, don't I?"   
  
He nodded slowly. "I could have used it a time or two myself. Isn't it only allowed for Healer use?"   
  
"I had a head injury when I was younger, and so Madam Pomfrey taught it to me. As you've seen, it's made itself useful ever since."   
  
Abby's mind whirled with the speed of a dozen Dervishes. The man before her seemed a sane and civil enough person – not the violent, deranged psychotic the papers had made him out to be. Her heart had always fought against giving the media accounts much credence anyway – bitter personal experience had taught her that any witch or wizard could be fooled by magical means of illusion.   
  
But still…Snuffles was Sirius Black. Sirius Black was Snuffles. The thoughts pounded against her brain like a troll wielding his club. Finally, devoid of a better idea, she held out her hand, which he stared at for a moment before grasping tentatively.   
  
"Abigail Loomis," she said, "or just Abby. Although…I suppose you already knew that."   
  
He nodded. "Sirius Black," he replied with hesitation. He was still bracing himself, as though waiting for her inevitable mad dash for the door.   
  
_And I suppose I already knew that, too. _  
  
"You're an Animagus," Abby said, her voice barely above a whisper.   
  
"I am," he replied uneasily. "I'm sorry I frightened you outside. I didn't mean…well, the things you said, they… I'm sorry. I shouldn't have startled you like that."   
  
His voice lapsed, and he broke off his gaze. Abby's mouth felt as if it were made of cotton. She was certain that any rational thought had long since vacated her mind. Looking down, she took in the long streaks of Mrs. Skower's running down the front of her robes. She did not need a mirror to know that her hair had been left a fright by her earlier cleaning exertions. The air had now fallen into an uncomfortable silence. Abby bit her lower lip and began to pull at a hangnail on her thumb.   
  
_Still, I suppose he's seen me in a worse state. Oh, how embarrassing… I haven't seen an evening this bizarre since Dad picked the wrong sort of wild mushrooms for Mum's chicken pie._   
  
Just as the awkwardness of the moment became almost tangible, a memory returned, entirely unbidden. A white tub, a pile of frothy suds, and one very wet dog… _Oh, no._ As the absurd hilarity of the situation ran fully rampant over her senses, Abby began to silently shake. Sirius eyed her warily, again unsure of whether she was going to run away or just fall over. She was in no state to form words, though, and so he finally had to speak.   
  
"Abigail?"   
  
Abby looked up at him, still shaking.   
  
"I GAVE YOU A BATH!!!" she shrieked, eyes wide, face aghast.   
  
Sirius flushed at her outcry and screwed up his face as though afflicted by a strong Headache Hex. He kept his eyes downward, kicking at the ground with one foot. Abby clutched her sides until the laughter slowed. She had treated one of Azkaban's most infamous prisoners to a dip in the tub – surely, there had to be a law against that. As she raised the heels of her hands to wipe her eyes, still hiccoughing, Sirius dared to look up.   
  
"Abby, I – I feel things differently as a dog. It was late, and Padfoot – yes, it's _Padfoot_, thank you, not _Snuffles_ – was tired, and you'd gotten hurt, and – " He paused and swore, appearing desirous for the earth to swallow him whole on the spot, but Abby had to smile. If he had not already hexed her to pieces after that incident, he was not going to do so now. In an instant, Abby decided that the Ministry and their concerns could be hanged. Sirius Black was Snuffles, and Snuffles was safe.   
  
"I'm relieved to hear that," she said, as one last laugh slipped out. "_Padfoot_ it is."   
  
_And thank Merlin I didn't gad about the house in my knickers last week._   
  
The abashed look left his face, and he gave a breath of genuine relief. Mercifully, the horrible tension in the cottage seemed to subside. A hesitant smile broke out on his face.   
  
"It's been some time since I've heard the expression 'flaming Quaffle'," he said, shaking his head with a short, bark-like laugh.   
  
"I had a – a friend who played Quidditch at Hogwarts," Abby replied. "Stop laughing – it's a real expression! People say that!"   
  
To her surprise, Sirius did quiet himself at the rebuke, although he did not take his gaze away. Her mind now on fire, Abby could not keep from asking the next question.   
  
"Why did you always leave before, at night?"   
  
He paused before speaking, and his face grew solemn again. "I had to see to an animal that I keep."   
  
The evening was becoming less terrifying and more ridiculous with each passing moment, and Abby broke out into a torrent of fresh giggles from the images his reply inspired. Sirius pulled his mouth and eyes into a scowl at the sound, as though another piece of raisin-filled scone had connected with his head.   
  
"No, no, I'm sorry," she finally gasped. "That gave me a vision of you rushing home to milk your cow. I'm so sorry. What kind of animal is it?"   
  
"A hippogriff."   
  
"Oh." Abby could think of nothing more to say to that revelation.   
  
_A hippogriff? He keeps a hippogriff? I'll never doubt anything again._   
  
Once more, uneasiness began to creep back into the room. The seamstress and the "stray" simply looked at each other, both very much aware of the irregularity and import of their current situation. Despite his current behavior, Sirius Black was still very much a wanted man.   
  
"Did we know one another at Hogwarts?" he asked after some time.   
  
"I was a few years behind you," Abby answered, "but I knew James Potter a little. He'd say 'hullo' from time to time."   
  
_And my grandmother wove his Invisibility Cloak, although I can't have you knowing that._   
  
At the mention of James, a mask crept over Sirius' face, and a haunted look settled in his eyes. The abruptness of the change tore at Abby's heart, and she regretted bringing up the memory of his long-dead mate. She had quietly observed them at Hogwarts for years, and she knew their friendship had been extraordinary.   
  
In that moment, the dozens of questions vying to get out of her mouth – How did he escape from Azkaban? Why was he in Hogsmeade? Why had he chosen her cottage? – petered off. She did not need to know. She did not want to know. And she was not going to ask.   
  
Although pained by his expression, Abby took advantage of the pause to glance over his ragged appearance. His hair, though messy from the rain, was neatly trimmed – blushing with discomfort, she realized that she might have had a part in that. His robes were rough, tattered, and crudely made. Azkaban issue. Abby did not know what she could do to take that awful look out of his eyes, but she resolved to do something about the one thing she could change. He should not have to look like a prisoner.   
  
"Just a moment, please – "   
  
Her words jostled him out of the horrible trance, and he watched silently as Abby hurried across the room and rifled through the piles on her workbench. Pulling a bolt of deep gray wool from the clutter, she returned to him and tossed it into the air, where it hung suspended, softly thumping as it unfurled a length of fabric unfurled before them. She scanned Sirius' frame once more, taking in his measurements. He was thin, terribly thin, but she forced her attention back to the task at hand, avoiding his eyes. If he had not thought her completely mad before, he might now.   
  
With a wave of her wand, Abby muttered a Shearing Spell (_"Incisum!"_). A thin beam of gold light shot forth from her wand, cutting through the cloth. After a moment, the bolt fell to the ground, leaving several robe panels hovering in the air. A quick _"Suturo!"_, and the pieces joined together fluidly. The finished robes dropped into the arms of Sirius, who stared at them blankly.   
  
Abby cleared her throat. "Now, for the fitting."   
  
He looked up with horrified eyes. "The fitting?"   
  
"You would like them sized properly, wouldn't you?" she replied, but her cheeks began to burn when she realized that Sirius could not tell she spoke in jest. "Sorry – that was just a joke." _A rather pathetic one, at that._ "I don't need to measure – they'll fit."   
  
_Please, stop me before I ask him if he'd like them pressed and starched._   
  
He ran his fingers over the smooth, clean cloth, as though it were something completely foreign to him. "It has been a while," he finally said, holding the robes stiffly, "but don't you usually do something with a measuring tape?"   
  
"Oh, that's just for show. It makes the customers feel as though they're getting their Galleon's worth."   
  
He looked at her, surprise and gratitude openly evident on his face. "Thank you," he said.   
  
She smiled shyly in return. "No bother. It's what I do."   
  
Abby then realized with a disconcerting jolt that Sirius Black was probably not going to change with her still there.   
  
"I'll just go into the other room for a moment, shall I?" she said, excusing herself. She hastened into the bedroom and shut the door behind her with a heavy breath.   
  
Abby sat down on the edge of her bed, holding her head. Her previous certainties were beginning to waver, and she wondered again what she was getting herself into.   
  
_I've obviously had a lack of male company lately, but there's something to be said for starting off with the law-abiding variety._   
  
Sirius Black – the murderer. He had killed thirteen people, by all accounts. Fifteen, if the account Rosmerta had shared with her last Christmas – that his betrayal had also led to James and Lily Potter's end – was to be believed. But he was also the Sirius Black she had watched innumerable times at Hogwarts, when he was unaware that his presence was known. The Sirius Black that had regarded James as a brother. Moreover, he was her dog – the dog that had saved her life. The dog that had, she remembered with a flush, licked her hand on a few occasions.   
  
_Oh, I'll never get used to this._   
  
She sat up from the bed and crossed to her wardrobe, hesitating before its door. She changed her mind fourteen times before deciding that putting on clean robes herself would simply be too strange. He was not some gentleman caller, after all. She passed the time by tidying up her hair instead. At least Gertie was absent, set up in her new home.   
  
Counting to twenty as she leaned against the bedroom door, her heart still pounding, Abby rapped lightly on the wood to signal her entrance. She saw Sirius at the kitchen table as she came into the room, his old pair of robes balled up near the fire. His hair was now mostly dry, and together with the new clothing, he looked altogether different, almost like a respectable wizard. It was a definite change, a _nice_ change. He glanced over as she neared and gestured clumsily at his robes.   
  
"They fit nicely…thank you."   
  
Her self-consciousness was threatening to rush back and trounce her composure entirely, so Abby merely gave a small shrug in reply and went to the kitchen to find something, anything, to keep herself busy. She was a bit frightened to open up any further train of conversation with Sirius, especially since each passing minute reinforced the nagging feeling that he already knew much more about her than she cared to think. Still, she did not necessarily want him to leave.   
  
"Er, care for a bite?" she asked, as she set out to prepare cocoa and a plate of biscuits. Sirius nodded, then sat quietly as she puttered about the kitchen.   
  
"Why do you walk to work?" he asked when she finally sat down opposite him. Abby's eyebrows rose in surprise at the question, but her mouth soon found itself in a grin. She could overcome self-consciousness long enough to voice her opinion on that subject.   
  
"There's the small matter of an Apparition License, which I do not have, as the Ministry deems me a "high Splinch risk". I'm a danger to others and myself, it would seem. I don't like to bother with Flooing – we don't even have a fire in the shop, and it musses up my robes – and so, I walk." She pushed a steaming mug across the table before continuing.   
  
"I often think of sending an owl to the D.M.T., telling them just what I think of them – er, I suppose you've already heard me say that– but I still hold to the vain hope that one day they'll grant me a license."   
  
He nodded his head. "I thought as much," he replied, lifting the mug to his mouth. The room was silent for a moment, except for the crunch of ginger biscuits.   
  
"Your neighbours talk about you," he said at last.   
  
"Oh, I'm sure they do," Abby replied, with a roll of her eyes. "For the record – no, I am not growing anything illegal in the cellar. I don't even have a cellar."   
  
_One that I'll show you, anyway. _  
  
"You never finished at Hogwarts, then?" Sirius posed the question warily, as though he knew the danger of assumptions very well himself.   
  
A far corner of Abby's mind told her that this was the ideal opportunity for delusion, to adopt a few flighty airs and mannerisms. But another corner reminded her that he had already seen her often enough, just as she was. Any attempt to disguise her character now would be too apparent, and, truth be told, she simply did not want to.   
  
_Let him think whatever he bloody well pleases. _  
  
She did launch into the well-honed tale, however, inwardly amazed at how glibly the lie danced out of her mouth.   
  
"…and so, Headmaster Dumbledore arranged for me to apprentice at Gladrags, and I've had a distinguished career in fashion ever since," she laughed. "I even had to make a special appeal to the Ministry to apply for my wandwork trade license. I'm required to display it in the shop – a bit embarrassing, I'll have you know – but I don't think anyone notices it anymore."   
  
She took a sip of cocoa, curious as to another matter. "What was that thing, the other night in the forest?" she asked. "It scared the life out of me."   
  
Sirius shrugged. "My money's on Hagrid. He usually doesn't care much for an animal unless it had deadly properties."   
  
"You saved me." Abby looked at him earnestly. "It could have killed you, too."   
  
He threw back his head and laughed at that, closing his eyes as though lost in memory. "I've dealt with worse. Please, Abby, forget about it."   
  
_Well, that's not likely, but I'll try._   
  
"So," she asked with a smile, "exactly how does one go about tending to a hippogriff?"   
  
She listened with a liberal amount of grimaces as Sirius described catching rats, ferrets, and other small animals for "Buckbeak." His affection for the hippogriff was surprisingly endearing, but still, she hoped he would not bring it by the house for a visit. She had experienced her share of fantastic beasts recently.   
  
The conversation wound on into the night, as mugs emptied and the tower of biscuits diminished. Finally, as the clock crept past one o'clock and their talk dwindled, Sirius began to look toward the door.   
  
_No, don't go – _  
  
"It's still storming something dreadful outside," Abby interjected into his unspoken thoughts. "You could, um, kip on the couch if you'd like. Will Buckbeak be all right for the night?"   
  
Sirius looked as embarrassed as she felt. He toyed with a pile of crumbs on the table as he gave his answer.   
  
"I left him with a good-sized pile of things to eat. I think he'll be fine."   
  
"Good, then."   
  
Abby left the table on the pretense of finding him some pajamas, but mostly so she would not have to look him in the eye. This really was too ludicrous – perhaps she would wake up the next morning and find that the happenings had been a dream, instigated by over-exposure to cleaning products.   
  
Despite a faintly sore knee and a convicted murderer under her roof, Abby fell asleep fairly easily that night. The conversation had been such a pleasant diversion, she reflected sleepily, even if it came under such odd conditions. Lately, the bulk of her evenings had been spent in fruitless efforts to finish her Invisibility Cloak.   
  
_I certainly hope someone appreciates the dratted thing someday._   
  
As Abby's eyelids became increasingly heavy, she could not help but laugh at what the rest of Hogsmeade might think of the sight of Sirius Black, asleep on her sofa in a pair of old flannel pajamas.   
  
Abby was not always the sole occupant of her cottage. Her father visited on occasion, as did various former schoolmates when they were passing through Hogsmeade. Still, she was quite unaccustomed to being awoken by a male voice in the dead of night – so unaccustomed, she had to stare into the darkness for some time before she realized what she was hearing.   
  
Groggy, she hoisted her legs over the side of the bed and shuffled to the doorway of her bedroom. Easing the door open a crack, she peered into the dim room and tried to make out whatever it was that Sirius was saying. Despite her sleepiness, it only took a moment for her to realize that her was not merely talking in his sleep. She could not see him over the high back of the sofa, but she heard his low, tormented moans and the muffled thumps that echoed throughout the room. She pushed the door the remainder of the way open, hesitating before padding out into the room and around the sofa.   
  
He did not look like any depiction of Sirius Black she had ever seen, even in Azkaban photographs, even at his worst. He writhed about on the sofa, twisting and jerking painfully. The light of the dying fire threw the angles of his face into sharp relief, highlighting every convulsed movement. He looked as though his soul were being torn from him with steady, exacting precision.   
  
Abby now had some understanding, inadequate though it was, of what Azkaban did to a man. She stared at him in confusion, not knowing what she should do, and yet knowing all the same. She reached out to touch him, which proved difficult – his arms thrashed fitfully, and exhaustion dulled her reflexes. On her third try she managed to grasp a forearm, and the twitching stopped. His eyes opened, and though they did not focus on her, Abby caught her breath when she saw their deadened appearance.   
  
He seemed aware of her presence after a long minute had passed, punctuated only by the crackling of the coals and the shallow gasping of his breath. When his eyes finally fixed on hers, she added her other hand to his forearm and rose to her feet, pulling him slightly upward. She tugged again, motioning gently for him to follow.   
  
With Sirius in tow, Abby stumbled back to the bedroom, drowsily colliding with the doorframe _(Ow!)_ as she entered. She had collapsed back on the bed and drawn the covers over her before she realized he was no longer with her. Looking up, she saw Sirius standing in the doorway, his tall form now cast into a dark shadow by the dwindling fire. His body still trembled from the nightmares, and if she had had any presence of mind at the moment, Abby would have found the sight terrifying. As it was, her only lucid thought at that early hour was that she just wanted for him to be able to rest.   
  
Mustering the little energy she had left, Abby lifted her head off the pillow and patted the empty space to her right. Sirius transformed, and Padfoot covered the distance with quiet footsteps, wavering at the foot of the bed before finally leaping onto it and settling down. Abby raised her hand to reach over and touch the dog's muzzle softly and then, seconds before the thought that she might feel exceptionally foolish in the morning could fully sink in, she fell back asleep.   
  
When slivers of sunlight stole through the curtains and opened Abby's eyes the next morning, her first thoughts were calm and pleasant. Ah, Sunday. She could spend all morning reading silly fashion periodicals, lolling about in her nightdress. A smile grew on her face as imagined the peaceful, unhurried hours ahead with no inventory to count, no till to balance, and most importantly, no customers to serve. Then she happened to look to her right, to the sight of a large, furry black mass sleeping beside her, and she had to clap a hand to her mouth to keep from shrieking.   
  
Unable to make head or tail of the situation, she racked her brain in a panicked frenzy. Bits of hazy memory were beginning to creep back, bringing with them the unsettling feeling that _she_ might have instigated this arrangement. She had the vague recollection of leading Sirius by the arm and then hearing the thud of Padfoot as he landed on her quilt.   
  
Perhaps she had thought, in whatever meager mental clarity might be found in the middle of the night, that it would help him to be near something other than Dementors and hippogriffs. Perhaps she had thought it was all taking place in a dream. Regardless of the reason, she was heartily grateful that she had splurged last year at the Forever Fluff Mattress Factory and purchased their largest model. Snuffles – er, _Padfoot_ – was a nice, safe distance away.   
  
Abby slipped out from under the quilt, which was pinned down on the other end by the dog, and tiptoed from the room, snatching a dressing gown on her way out. Her face blanched at the thought of what her father might say if he knew about her present predicament. She might be an adult who was free to make her own decisions, but all the same, she was _not_ about to tell him of this.   
  
Her ears soon picked up the sound of water running in the bathroom. He was awake. She cracked another egg into the frying pan and began to fill the teakettle. More niggling doubts arose with each new sizzle. This was aiding and abetting at its most obvious. Was she so caught up in the heady feeling of defying the Ministry that she was willfully disregarding where Sirius Black's allegiances might still lie?   
  
_Should I hunt down whatever's left of Voldemort and ask him if he'd like a spot of breakfast, too?_   
  
But when Sirius nervously poked his head out the door ten minutes later, wearing his new robes, Abby's fears abated. A snicker threatened to escape her lips. Death Eaters could not possibly look so sheepish.   
  
"Hullo," she said with studied nonchalance, as though greeting him in the morning was an everyday occurrence. "Tea?"   
  
Sirius walked into the room and took the cup and saucer from Abby. She angled her head so as not to stare, but she was glad to see that his face looked less haggard than it had the night before. She continued to watch as he raised the cup and took his first sip…which he promptly spat back out. Liquid sloshed off the edge of the saucer and onto the floor.   
  
"What is _this_?" he asked with a grimace.   
  
"Mint, with a little bit of sugar," Abby answered, confused. "Why? It's not so bad. I grew it myself."   
  
Sirius peered into the teacup, before giving her a look of utmost skepticism. "Not so bad with a shot of Firewhiskey, perhaps, but this…_yech._"   
  
Abby's mouth began to twist into a scowl. Her father was always on about her mint tea, too. She liked the taste, blast them all.   
  
"That's all I had! If I'd _known_ I was having company, I'd have stocked the pantry better."   
  
Abby huffed in annoyance, too flustered to prevent the next comment from slipping off her tongue.   
  
"At least you managed to groom _yourself_ today."   
  
"Surprisingly, I do still remember how to do that," Sirius replied calmly. "And I'm sure that if you'd known you were having company, you would have scrubbed up the tub better, too."   
  
At those words, Abby's jaw dropped. Her father might joke about her tea, but he knew better than to ever, ever criticize a witch's housekeeping.   
  
_It's your blooming dirt I can't get off that tub! You, of all people, really can't afford to be picky! You – _  
  
Her temper came dangerously close to breaking free, but then she noticed the growing smirk on Sirius' face, which finally erupted into a loud guffaw. She directed her wand at him and picked up the frying pan off the hob a few threatening inches.   
  
"Shut it, or you'll have all future meals in a tin dish outside the back door!"   
  
Sirius smirked, amused at her flustered state. "Now that I know you can't do much damage with that wand, I won't be so easily coerced."   
  
She glared back at him, but her wand hand shook with repressed laughter.   
  
"Oh, you'd be surprised. I know a mean curse or two…involving _needles._"   
  
"I'll take your word on that. But put the frying pan down, will you? There's no call to waste a decent breakfast." Still grinning, Sirius walked over to the stove and peered at the sizzling sausages and eggs. "Looks good. Better than rats, I dare say."   
  
Abby cringed at the image that comment evoked. "I should hope so! I won't even ask how you know what rats taste like." After a pause, she added lightly, "For the sake of my stomach, please don't eat them again. At least, not any more than you have to."   
  
The offer was subtly given, as was his brief nod of assent.   
  
_You can eat here, stay here. _  
  
"Um, thank you, for – " he gestured awkwardly toward the bedroom with his head.   
  
Abby kept her face on the eggs, to keep her blushing cheeks unseen. "Well, I knew I'd be able never get any sleep, otherwise," she said, with a dismissive flick of her hand. But Sirius seemed to understand the reason for her flippant tone, and he did not mention the incident further.   
  
As she placed breakfast before him and sat down with her own plate, Abby snuck a few small, stealthy glances at the man across from her. Yes, if only in small part, this was more like the Sirius Black she had enjoyed watching at Hogwarts. It was nice to see him again.   
  
As they breakfasted in silence, Abby noted with amusement that Sirius' method of eating varied little from dog to man. The portion of the tablecloth nearest him was definitely making out the worst from the meal, but she could look past that. Social graces would come later.   
  
Gladrags' winter cloak racks were in sore need of rearranging, and the monotony of the task provided Abby with a welcome opportunity to sort out the events of the past few days. She shuffled various thoughts in and out of her mind as she worked. Lucius Malfoy…flame-shooting monstes...the dog…Snuffles...Padfoot…Sirius Black. Sirius Black.   
  
_And oh my, the bath…_   
  
Once again, she felt grateful for the solitude of the cloak display. For all she had known, he had just been a dog, but _still_…one did not hold prison escapees in a tub at wandpoint just everyday.   
  
The bell on the shop door tinkled, signaling an arrival. Abby stayed behind the racks, curious to see if her shop attendants would divert themselves from their gossip session near the school robes long enough to attend to the patron. She smiled as she heard Chanella's voice. Good for her. Although talented with a needle, Chanella Parker was still terribly timid and would benefit from more direct contact with the customers. Abby busied herself with the robes again, keeping an ear attuned to the distant conversation.   
  
_I must find better hangers for these…_   
  
She was airing out the folds of a voluminous scarlet cloak when an angered reply from the customer carried back to her. The voice was low and controlled, but the sneer in it was unmistakable. Briefly burying her face in the cloth, Abby flinched. She now knew who the customer was, and she regretted not having providing Chanella with some assistance. As amusing as the idea of Professor Severus Snape standing on a velvet pedestal with outstretched arms was, _she_ would have known better than to broach the subject of a fitting to him. Madam Bussell had once suggested this action years ago and had received the most withering of replies. And that reaction had been understated, for Snape – Abby could hardly imagine what he might say and do to a novice shop assistant like Chanella.   
  
Abby crossed the showroom floor in a few quick strides and placed herself between him and the now cowering girl.   
  
"Professor Snape, how may we be of service today?"   
  
Her intervention diverted his attention from Chanella and seemed to quell any further fury. "Professor Dumbledore has announced…a Yule Ball." He lingered on the phrase, a wince easily detectable in his low voice   
  
Abby let out a small cry and beamed, clapping her hands together. A Yule Ball would be wonderful for the students and, more importantly, great for business.   
  
Snape ignored her delighted response. "As if the youngsters needed another forum to publicly display their baser urges," he continued under his breath.   
  
"Wonderful, Professor Snape! You'll be needing dress robes, then."   
  
_"Yes,"_ he replied pointedly, mocking the obviousness of her statement. "That is the expected attire for such an occasion."   
  
Abby decided to give no visible heed to his sarcasm. "Why, there hasn't been a ball in ages, has there? I suppose it's in honor of the Tournament. Oh, there may be a rush on our eveningwear. I really ought to check the stockroom tonight…"   
  
"Miss Loomis." The interruption was firm. "I have no desire to occupy your time any longer than is necessary to procure dress robes. May we proceed?"   
  
Realizing the advantages in keeping Severus Snape in a tolerable mood, Abby complied. She gestured toward the private fitting room in the back of the shop and followed as he stalked past the black velvet curtains. She looked over her shoulder to smile sympathetically at the still-shivering Chanella. Professor Snape did not come to Gladrags often, yet when he did, he almost always managed to leave a shop assistant on the verge of tears.   
  
Abby had since decided to see to the professor herself on these infrequent visits. He was a contemporary of hers, of sorts, and surely no one could be that unpleasant on purpose. He doubtlessly did not recognize the gesture, and he certainly would not acknowledge it if he did, but Abby usually did her best to lessen his discomfort by getting him in and out of the shop as quickly as possible.   
  
They entered the fitting room, and Abby began to open cupboards and drawers, pulling out swatches and bolts of dress fabric. With great forbearance, she refrained from laying out the garish lavenders and blues Gilderoy Lockhart had once favored. Snape might curse her on the spot for the suggestion that he attend the ball clad in periwinkle.   
  
"Do tell me, Professor Snape" Abby said when finished, "what particularly nasty concoction have you left bubbling in your dungeon today?"   
  
Annoyance was evident in every part of his face. "A Deflecting Draft, a special request of Madam Pomfrey," he stated brusquely. "As it would seem, the winter sun shines too brightly for some students' _delicate_ eyes."   
  
Deflecting Draft? The thought piqued Abby's curiosity, but she kept her attention focused on the black satin before her.   
  
"Really, now – a Deflecting Draft? What would go into such a potion?" Her eyes narrowed as she readied herself to retain whatever information he might give.   
  
"Of what possible interest could that be to you?" Snape inquired coolly, his implication clear.   
  
"Oh, I'm just having a go at friendly conversation, sir." Abby could hardly resist her next remark, knowing full well it might infuriate him to the breaking point. "I was quite a hand at Potions in my Hogwarts days."   
  
To his credit, Snape merely raised an eyebrow in response. Still, his nostrils flared in suppressed irritation, and Abby had to fight the impulse to giggle. "Is that so?" he replied. "I'm sure a knowledge of potions is quite useful in your…current vocation."   
  
_More than you might suppose, Severus._   
  
"Pray tell," she tried again, as she spread the fabrics out, "what does one use to brew a Deflecting Draft?"   
  
Snape exhaled deeply, but he began to flatly recite a list of Potions ingredients as Abby continued to arrange the pieces on the table.   
  
"…crushed Scarab beetles, the eggshell of one Ashwinder – Miss Loomis, dare I ask you to hurry? I hardly need tell you again that I am not here of my own accord and have no wish to tarry a moment longer than necessary!"   
  
"I'm so sorry, Professor Snape. It was simply fascinating to hear you talk so!"   
  
A voice from outside carried into the room, saving her from his mounting rage.   
  
"Miss Loomis? Could you come here, please?"   
  
The tremulous voice belonged to Chanella. Abby excused herself from Professor Snape, who looked none too sad to see her depart, and returned to the showroom. To her eternal frustration, she saw the same wizard who had tried, just last week, to return without a sales slip a cloak that was at least five years old. Sighing, she went to Chanella's aid.   
  
The thick carpet muffled Abby's footsteps as she returned to the fitting room minutes later, and Snape did not notice her approach as she came to the partially open door. He was hovering over the samples, fingering each piece, the low lamplight muting the lines of his face. Abby hesitated to enter the room. It felt almost improper to be watching him so, and she knew quite well that he would not like to be interrupted at such a time. The manner of his gaze was puzzling – if she did not know better, she might actually think that Severus Snape, a man not known for his personal grooming, gave a pickled slug as to what he wore. He paused on a swatch of fine black silk, lightly running his long fingers over it.   
  
Abby took a few steps back into the corridor, clearing her throat. "That's right, Chanella, file the return with the others," she called out. Counting to five, she stepped forward and rapped on the door.   
  
"All right, Professor Snape?"   
  
He was standing by the table when she entered, tapping his fingers impatiently. "I trust you have taken care of these more _pressing_ matters?" he inquired. He picked up the bit of silk and tossed it aside with seeming indifference as she nodded.   
  
"That, then," he said curtly. "Make them up in my usual style, and owl them to Hogwarts by Thursday next."   
  
Abby nodded demurely, and Snape stalked out the room. She heard the heavy swish of the velvet curtain, then Chanella's frightened gasp, and then finally the tinkle of the bell as he left Gladrags. His scent lingered in the room, causing Abby to thank Merlin that the house elves still ran an exceptionally efficient laundry. For someone who bathed as infrequently as the state of his hair might indicate, a much more disagreeable odor might have permeated his robes.   
  
She glanced down at the slip of parchment in her hand and the measurements it noted in firm, even script. This was his practice, every time he visited the shop. He had informed her years ago of having no intention to ever try on a garment on while in Gladrags. She never pressed the issue, not daring to wager on making it out of a fitting with him alive.   
  
With a flash of fiendish determination, Abby resolved to take a few liberties with Professor Severus Snape's dress robes. She could always say she had misunderstood his instructions; no one would doubt her much on that point, and he would hardly return to Gladrags to argue with her about it.   
  
_You deserve this, Snape…yes, you certainly do._   
  
The robes she later finished and sent to Hogwarts were still simply made, yet they had the stylish, understated additions of notches to the collar, a pleat in the upper sleeve, and an attractive, leaner cut. She could only suppose and smile at the choice expletive that might greet them, or at his general disposition at the Yule Ball. (She would never know that her plotting, in small part, had contributed to the violent demise of several Hogwarts rosebushes.)   
  
Abby returned to the showroom and busied herself once more with the cloaks. The shop was empty, she observed, and a glance at her watch told her that only twenty more minutes remained until closing time.   
  
"Chanella, what do you saying to closing up early today? Why don't you tell the other girls to begin tidying up?"   
  
"Really, Miss Loomis?" Chanella looked over in surprise. "Do – do you have an appointment to get to?"   
  
Abby turned to the sapphire cloak before her. "There's no particular reason, dear," she said, as she casually straightened out its folds. She lowered her head so that Chanella would not see the smile that played across her lips.   
  
"Although, I do have to see to an animal that I keep."   
  



	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**   
  
Abby ran her hands over the shimmering silver cloth stretched out before her. It would be a lovely cloak. Its entire creation had passed here on the smooth oaken beams of her mother's loom. She had long felt that she knew every knot, every nick on this wooden structure, from the dent her father had made with a mispronounced Sanding Spell to the hidden corner where an eight year-old girl had carved her initials with penknife. Her mother had known every surface of the loom, too, and had given Abby the task of cleaning out the chicken coop, without magic, for the two weeks following that incident.   
  
In front of the loom was its magical companion, a rectangular finishing frame. Years ago, when the first length of invisibility cloth had been completed, Abby had cut it from the loom and moved it to the frame, where it was mounted securely in place. Subsequent layers of cloth were later added on top, and after the necessary spells, the correct potions, and a great deal of time, the layers had begun to fuse together into one. Gradually, after an almost unbearable amount of waiting, the rich silver of the cloth had begun to take on the shimmering gleam of invisibility.   
  
Weaving the gossamer-fine strands was almost like handling cobwebs, Abby often thought, and she fervently pleaded with the threads not to break during each weaving session; if they did, days and weeks of work would be lost. Through the use of Moisture Charms, her hands remained soft and allowed the threads to pass through without snagging or snarling. Each individual layer of the invisibility cloth was so light, so airy, that twenty layers – each a laborious undertaking in its own right – were needed to give the material the heft and stability of a cloak.   
  
Abby swept her eyes around, toying with a nearby shuttle and smiling as she surveyed her spacious, brightly lit surroundings. When she had first moved into the cottage, Dumbledore had cast spells to regulate the temperature and make the room a perfect environment for weaving. The conjured windows in the cellar showed a star-dappled nighttime sky. Diagonally across from her were a smokeless fire and a stack of well-worn cauldrons. Nearby rested an ancient cabinet with herbs and potions supplies – the ingredients used to first treat the Demiguise hair and then the woven fabric – poking out of its cubbyholes.   
  
Beyond the finishing frame was a long, wide workbench, littered with bobbins, carding combs, skeins of yarn, and other weaving materials. Its neighbour, an enchanted spinning wheel, was transforming the fine hairs of the Demiguise beast into delicate filaments of thread. Behind her was Grandmother Connelly's loom, which always made Abby grateful for the many uses of Engorgement Charms; two such huge frames would never have fit into one room otherwise. Pity the magic only allowed a Weaver to work on one cloak at a time. Still, the second loom came in handy for other undertakings. To Abby's left was her favorite of the room's decorations – an overstuffed velvet sofa, perfect for the moments when she wanted to close her eyes and pretend she lived in a world where such things as invisibility cloaks did not exist.   
  
Although Abby sometimes harboured a mite of guilt-tinged resentment toward the developing cloak, she knew she would miss it when it was gone. Its presence was steady, comforting. In the fabric, she saw glimpses of her mother and grandmother. Her mum's weaving style had always been, to Grandmother Connelly's unending chagrin, a bit "flashy". Grandmother's mode, as Harry Potter's cloak reminded Abby so forcefully, was more sedate and dignified. Abby had been delighted to see that her own weaving struck a nice balance between the two, as though her lineage was tied together in the cloth. It would truly be a lovely cloak.   
  
She was also grateful that she did not have to see a stack of pelts on the workbench. (Although she had loved to stroke the soft hair as a child, she had finally seen one of the few, rare wizarding photographs of a Demiguise, several years ago. One never knew when the Demiguise would reveal itself, so Abby had been required to stare at the photograph for an inordinate amount of time. Still, the wait had been worth the glimpses of the serene creature, which had gazed at her fleetingly with its doleful eyes.) Ten years ago, Dumbledore had taken part in creating a special Stunning Spell that not only effectively stalled the Demiguise, but kept it visible long enough for skilled handlers to shear the long, silky hair of the ape-like beasts. Now only a large, nondescript burlap sack lay in the corner, sealed shut with a spell known only to Abby and Dumbledore. Inside rested a substantial supply of the fine, silvery wisps.   
  
Abby walked to the finishing frame and ran her hands over the cloak once more before leaving. The Deflecting Draft, shared unwittingly by Severus Snape, had been just what was needed. Only small areas of the fabric still retained their normal silver colour. Her mind toyed with ideas as to how she might thank the Potions Master – perhaps a pair of the high-heeled, buckled boots that Dumbledore fancied, delivered to him during class? Or some gaily-striped stockings, owled over in a large Gladrags box during the breakfast hour? The shop did have an outstanding selection of men's satin pajamas… No, although the idea held great potential for amusement, it might motivate him to develop methods of long-distance poisoning that he would surely test on her.   
  
Standing on the hearthrug, ready to cast the spell that would raise her back up to the cottage, Abby smiled to herself. It certainly was interesting, this unspoken arrangement that she and Sirius Black had devised between themselves in the week that he had stayed with her. He never asked why she disappeared into the house for two or more hours upon arriving home from Gladrags. When she would finally come out into the garden each evening, Padfoot would either be waiting for her or would shortly arrive. She never inquired as to how he spent his days, apart from the care and feeding of hippogriffs, or why he devoured the _Daily Prophet_ as soon as he could get his hands on it. Perhaps he was looking for information on the search for his wanted self, but she would never know. He allowed Abby her secrets, and she would let him keep his.   
  
All together, it was a wholly satisfying lack of communication.   
  
Abby wanted very much to go home after closing up Gladrags the following evening, but a visit to Madam Rosmerta was at least a week overdue. Of course, the habitual crowd of rowdy regulars would not permit much of a proper meeting, but she knew she could at least pass on a few particulars discreetly. Besides, she needed to give the landlady her Christmas present – a fine tablecloth that Abby's father had purchased on her behalf in Paris. Abby hoped Rosmerta would enjoy the beautiful piece of linen, which would never have to see the light, tankards, or patrons of The Three Broomsticks.   
  
She ducked aside as the pub door swung open, grateful for the early darkness of December when she recognized the Lawson fellow of a few months earlier in the departing group. He and his mates paid her no notice as they hiccoughed down the street, treating Hogsmeade to a few drunken Christmas carols. Abby gave a soft laugh as she watched their retreating figures. At least she could threaten to set her dog on him if he ever approached her again. Yes, she had been lonely in the past, but never _that_ lonely.   
  
Abby had not cared for company of _any_ sort in the first few years following Will's death. She had simply gone through the motions of work and weaving, work and weaving, and by the time life began to seem meaningful again, most of her friends had already left school and moved away. They Apparated and Flooed into town on occasion, but there was less and less to talk about as their lives grew more disparate from Abby's. She had still had a few friends among the younger students, but in the area of romance, the tale of her departure from Hogwarts always preceded her.   
  
Attention of Mr. Lawson's variety still came her way now and then, most of it highly unwelcome. In her opinion, a wizard had to be willfully dense to mistake a tradeswoman's pleasant courtesy for affirmation of his physical charms. Perhaps someday, Pinprick Hexes and Chafing Charms would not be compulsory lessons for her new shop assistants. Until then, she would have no qualms about sending offenders out the door with Invisi-Pins in the seams of their robes.   
  
The few engaging, unattached wizards who came to Gladrags were usually also aware of her past. While they were always polite and certainly not above the occasional mild flirtation, they never pursued anything further. In time, Abby found it almost less painful to simply content herself with remembrances of Will. Doing so kept her from dwelling on that the fact that even though the village teemed with the visitors come for the Triwizard Tournament, she spent every evening alone in her cottage.   
  
_Until now, that is…_   
  
Abby opened the door to The Three Broomsticks and walked in, her eyes lighting up as she saw her favorite seat resting vacant at the end of the bar. Holding in her robes and cloak to avoid muddy boots from treading on them, she wove through the throng and seated herself. Rosmerta came by shortly, resplendent in emerald green robes, her cheeks red from the warmth of the crowd. Abby greeted the landlady happily as Rosmerta expertly whisked a foaming bottle of butterbeer down the counter.   
  
"Oh, Rosmerta, that's not necessary! I can only stay a moment."   
  
"Nonsense, dear, there's quite a chill outside," Rosmerta replied merrily. "And besides, I'm quite in your debt for providing the pub with its latest amusement! That mirror of yours has become quite popular, although I can't say her character's improved much from being in the loo."   
  
"Gertie?" Abby laughed. "I knew she'd have more fun here than at my cottage. What's she done?"   
  
"She – she – " Rosmerta pursed her rosy lip together, trying to keep her composure. "Let's just say, the men are quite entertained by the comments she manages to cook up. She's become quite a tease."   
  
Abby covered her eyes with a hand. "I don't doubt that! Gertie's vocabulary was always much more colorful than mine. She's certainly yours for the keeping – I don't miss her morning commentary a bit."   
  
_Especially now that an escaped convict lives in my home. Oh goodness, I can only imagine what Gertie might say to that. Although, that might be the one thing that would shut her up._   
  
"One moment, dear – " Rosmerta paused to send a rag skimming down the counter, where it spun over the contents of a freshly overturned glass and then wrung itself out over a nearby sink. She turned back to Abby with a satisfied look.   
  
"There. Now, how's the shop, Miss Loomis? Everything all right?"   
  
Abby nodded her head. "Oh, yes. We've acquired some new clientele, you know. The _discriminating_ sort." _The Malfoys._ She adopted the tone of an eager soldier. "I shall do my best not to disappoint them."   
  
"I believe that sort fancies themselves a mite above this establishment," Rosmerta chuckled. "I'm sure they'll bring in a pretty penny for you, though."   
  
Abby laughed. "Now, that didn't come from my lips, Rosmerta! But yes, I think they will become very valued customers, indeed."   
  
The sound of shattering glass interrupted their conversation, and the women looked down to the other end of the bar, where "Gilly Gil" Barlow sat with a sheepish look on his face. Rosmerta winced and swept off to survey the damage. Abby took another sip of her butterbeer and wondered what she and Sirius might talk about that night. Her foot tapped against the leg of her barstool as she stared into her bottle, eager to be off.   
  
"You're certainly looking well, Miss Loomis," Rosmerta commented upon her return. She gave a crinkle-eyed smile and twisted to the mirror behind the bar, tucking back a stray curl with one hand and pouring Mr. Barlow's replacement glass of gillywater with the other. "A new man friend in your life?"   
  
Abby's head jerked up abruptly, but Rosmerta's position didn't allow her to notice the reaction. It was well-worn joke between the two of them, one they often bandied about, but it held an entirely different meaning now. Abby suddenly wondered if Rosmerta was ever lonely. She had never asked before – though they were friends, the question seemed much too intrusive. Abby tipped her head back down and casually traced her finger around the rim of her butterbeer.   
  
"Only if you count the stray dog that's been hanging about my cottage," she said lightly.   
  
"Aye," Rosmerta replied with a look of commiseration. "Such must be our lot in life! But I'm sure the shop has done well with all the visitors in town. I'm pleased for you, love."   
  
Abby turned on her stool to gesture about the busy pub. "I see you're doing well by the Triwizard Tournament, too," she noted cheekily.   
  
In one corner of the room, a man was falling out of the chair that his drunken companion was trying to levitate. Another fellow, was slapping the table in an attempt to chase down the spectacles that had been enchanted to dance out of his reach. His tablemates roared with laughter, while a nearby group of warlocks started into the bawdiest verse of "Sheila the Veela".   
  
Rosmerta chuckled. "Now, none of that, dearie, or I'll give you your mirror back, even though she really does seem to enjoy it here. I should tell you that we did have to move her around a bit at first. Some of the chaps felt she was peeking."   
  
"Well, maybe I'll say 'hullo' to her before I go..." Abby paused to pull a box wrapped in filmy scarlet gauze from her bag. "But I mustn't forget this! Happy Christmas, Rosmerta."   
  
Rosmerta's face coloured in delight as she looked at the package, and she let out such a cry of surprise that the five closest patrons at the bar looked up from their drinks and conversation. Her eyes flashed them an unmistakable admonition to not meddle, however, and they all returned to their ale posthaste. Rosmerta's face softened as she leaned in to quickly squeeze Abby's hand.   
  
"Thank you, Abby. I'll save it to open later – I shan't give these louts the pleasure of seeing me cry."   
  
Abby clasped Rosmerta's hand with her other. "From one woman in trade to another, yes?" she said, knowing they were both much more than that. "Now, wish me luck that Gertie doesn't break herself over my head."   
  
After slipping another two bottles of butterbeer in Abby's bag, Rosmerta went back to tending the bar, and Abby left her seat to ease up to the door of the men's loo, keeping herself a safe distance away. She had no desire to be hit by an exiting customer or given an inadvertent view of the interior. Even while a foot away from the entrance, she could still hear the familiar female voice carrying on loudly inside.   
  
"Gertie? You in there?" Abby called out.   
  
The voice stopped in surprise, and then an unintelligible burst of loud blather slipped through the cracks in the door. Gertie did not seem too pleased by the reunion.   
  
"Gertie?" Abby continued with a smirk. "Mind if I come in and powder my nose?"   
  
She left the pub, laughing, as the peeved sounds of Gertie followed her almost to the main door. With a hearty wave goodbye to Rosmerta, she set off for home. If she did not bother with the weaving tonight, she would not keep Sirius waiting long.   
  
"Chop that up, will you?"   
  
With a grunt, Sirius looked up from his newspaper to the large onion Abby had placed before him. Clearly perturbed at being interrupted in his reading, he grabbed her wand and splintered the onion into a dozen rough pieces. He slapped the wand back down on the table and returned to the _Daily Prophet_, while Abby scooped up the onion bits with both hands and added them to the pot simmering on the stove. She chanced a small glance back at him before pausing to deeply inhale the scent of the beef stew.   
  
Abby had never seen the use of preparing extravagant meals just for herself – it had always much easier to grab a quick sandwich or bit of chicken at The Three Broomsticks. But she had made it her mission in this last week to add a few pounds to Sirius' bony frame. Already, he was beginning to look better, two weeks of her cooking having added a slight fullness to his face. It blurred some of the harsh Azkaban edges, although she still wondered if light would ever completely return to his eyes. At times, they looked as though any traces of life had been permanently hollowed out of them.   
  
His moods differed so much from evening to evening, too. At times he was jovial, talkative – almost a tease. Just last night, they had had quite a time together while Abby had shown him how to conjure Invisi-Pins.   
  
"And you really use these on men who come to the shop?" he had asked almost admiringly, aiming a series of pins at the soap bubbles she had blown into the air.   
  
Abby had flashed a devilish grin and blown another cloud of iridescent spheres. "Only on the worst offenders, although I must say, I've been sorely tempted to try them out on my neighbours. The pins disappear after a day or two, so I don't think it would be _too_ awful of a thing to do."   
  
Sirius had laughed, successfully impaling a nearby flock of bubbles. "Invisibility has its benefits, doesn't it?"   
  
Abby had studied him thoughtfully at that comment, a smile pulled up one corner of her mouth. He had been occupied with conjuring a fresh batch of pins and did not see her face.   
  
"It certainly does," she had replied, chuckling at the state of the floor. "Just remember to wear your shoes inside until these go away – I don't want Padfoot to bite me if you lose a toe."   
  
Yet at other times, Sirius would enter the cottage with a stony face, clearly not wanting to talk at all. He was never short with her, and he never specifically asked to be let alone, but Abby knowingly obliged. She would provide him with dinner and that day's _Daily Prophet_, both of which he would devour, and then she would curl up on the sofa to think about cloaks, Malfoys, and the current odd state of her life. But although Abby usually left him alone when he appeared to be in such an ill humour, she could not help needling him tonight. It was the holiday season, and by Merlin, she actually felt like celebrating this year.   
  
Though Sirius' moods varied, he did seem to be sleeping more soundly. There were nights when he cried out loudly enough to wake her, but he would be back asleep by the time she made her way to the living room. She sometimes waited by the sofa for a few minutes to make sure he was well, wondering how he could possibly deal with the horrors he must have experienced. A conflicted, wistful part of her hoped that he knew he could come to her, if needed. A mountain of soapsuds had long ago moved their relationship beyond awkward trivialities, even though so many things remained unspoken between them.   
  
Abby now placed a few carrots before him. "Could you dice these, please?" she asked sweetly.   
  
Sirius exhaled loudly. Without looking up from his newspaper, he grabbed her wand and broke the carrots into jagged shards.   
  
"Thank you," Abby murmured in a singsong voice, stifling a giggle. She whisked the carrots into the stew, added some seasonings to the liquid, and looked back at Sirius. She did not know what he found so interesting in the newspaper, but whatever it was, it could wait until a little later.   
  
Abby felt somewhat delinquent when she realized that she had been using that same justification for most of the last week – the invisibility cloak lay in the cellar, the loom untouched. Though her sense of obligation occasionally gave her a sharp poke, it did become a little easier with each passing day to neglect the weaving. While weaving was interesting, certainly, and a challenge of her skill, it was high time for a holiday. Progress on the cloak was mostly at a standstill, anyway, and she really did not have the time to research further, especially not when conversation, company, and smiles awaited her upstairs. Abby had not realized how alone she had been until she had someone with whom she could share the ending of each day…   
  
_Well, I don't exactly "have" him – he's really just a visitor, a guest, but he's someone to talk to and to laugh with, and he…Oh bother, what am I thinking! Never mind, Abby, never mind._   
  
To clear her mind, Abby began to give some potatoes a ferocious scrubbing over the kitchen sink. She was not sure what the fact that she entertained these thoughts about a convicted felon implied about her...assuming, of course, that he really was a felon, which was having more and more trouble believing. She had seen his behavior at Hogwarts when he did not know anyone else was looking. While she would never ask to be on the end of some of his pranks, especially those directed towards various members of Slytherin House, he had never been malicious to younger students. He had been headstrong and reckless, yes, but she had since seen his reaction of numb grief at the mention of James Potter.   
  
_He couldn't have been responsible for those deaths, he simply couldn't..._   
  
She continued to scrub, forcing the brunt of her confusion onto the potatoes, until she finally placed them in front of Sirius. His eyes narrowed and his hand clenched as he pulled himself away from the _Daily Prophet_ once more, but Abby only smiled. This was not true anger, not like she had seen in the garden the night when he had revealed himself. She knew, in accordance with their silent pact to steer clear of personal information, that she would not ask just yet why her words had stung him as they had. But perhaps, someday, she might.   
  
Sirius wielded the wand angrily at the potatoes, but they all remained intact, perhaps a little frightened after viewing the fate of their fellow vegetables. Abby watched as he directed the wand at them again and again, each time with the same result.   
  
"Your wand won't cooperate," he said in exasperation, throwing it halfway across the table.   
  
Abby snickered as she picked up the wand and wiped it off on the dishrag across her shoulder. "I believe it prefers a more genteel user," she said, "one with a certain level of refinement. Or a more _domesticated_ one, at least. I think it's still a little miffed at you for the scratches."   
  
"If that's the case," Sirius snapped. "I'll just leave your overgrown toothpick for firewood next time. And doesn't 'refinement' imply the ability to walk in a straight line without knocking into things?"   
  
Abby's eyebrows rose at that remark, but her expression soon gave way to a smirk. She was already very aware of her lack of physical coordination, and so she was not about to get herself in a snit over that one.   
  
"Mongrel," she tossed over her shoulder, as she took the potatoes to chop herself.   
  
"Shopgirl," he quickly countered.   
  
"Mutt."   
  
"Fifth year."   
  
Sirius' voice stopped abruptly, as though had had been too caught up in the volley of words to realize what was saying. But now his attention had been successfully wrested away from the newspaper, and he stared at Abby with a stricken face. She did her best to glower at him, but her scowl soon caved and she laughed.   
  
"Sirius, I've heard much worse. You're going to have to come up with something better next time. And since you've been such a dear tonight, you're going to have to help me conjure fairy lights for the back garden after dinner."   
  
_"Fairy lights?"_ he groaned.   
  
"Fairy lights." Abby replied decisively. "Christmastime is coming, and if you're not going to fetch my slippers anymore, you've got to earn your keep somehow."   
  
Abby consulted her wristwatch – it was already getting late, but if she did not work on her weaving tonight, she could pick up a few things from the grocer and not keep Sirius waiting too long. Tonight was a perfect night for a hot chicken and mushroom pie, spiced pumpkin juice, and the remainder of the ginger biscuits that Sirius had commissioned two days ago. As a matter of fact, he had requested those same biscuits a few days before that, and a few days before that. She realized with a smile that she had better think up a proper alibi, just in case Mr. Cleaves asked about the inordinate amount of baking ingredients she had been buying lately. He might easily assume they were for her holiday baking, but she should bring a plate of biscuits by all the same to be entirely convincing.   
  
She made her shopping trip quick – she was much more eager to rush home and see Sirius than she would care to admit. He had been in her home now for almost three weeks now, and she had become quite skillful at suppressing the irksome thought that she had let the last two them pass without even taking a glance at the cloak. Each of those nights, she had gone directly home and let Padfoot into the cottage. Surely she was due a break, she would tell herself each time. Eighteen years was an awfully long time, after all.   
  
Leaving the shop, Abby paused on the pavement to bend her knees and hoist up the grocery bags that were slipping increasingly out of her grasp. Her right arm had a fairly stable hold on its bundle, but the bag on her left arm was beginning to teeter. The ground was too wet to place them down and she did not have a free hand to reach for her wand…   
  
Just as a bundle of leeks toppled out of the wobbling bag, the red sparks of a Levitating Spell passed over her shoulder. The bags righted themselves and floated out of her arms to rest in the air before her. Abby looked over her shoulder to see Mr. Cleaves standing in the doorway, his large arms with their rolled-up shirtsleeves folded across his grocer's smock. His moustache twitched as he chuckled deeply, and Abby flashed a grateful smile back at him.   
  
"You'd think I'd know better than to carry these home without magic, wouldn't you, Gerald?"   
  
"It happens every day, m'dear," he chortled, holding up a lump wrapped in white paper. "I saved a packet of scraps for you – will you be wanting them for your dog?"   
  
Although caught off-guard, Abby prided herself on collecting her composure more quickly than she had earlier with Rosmerta. Someday soon, she would either have to learn to become a better liar or convince everyone that the dog had run away. Subterfuge with her customers was one thing – artifice with her friends was a more difficult matter.   
  
_What do I say to these things? Well, Buckbeak might enjoy them._   
  
"Yes, thank you," she said, adding the scraps to one of her bags.   
  
"One moment, miss – " Mr. Cleaves ducked back inside the grocery, emerging moments later with an arrow-shaped pastry box. "An apple tart for your dinner. My wife has really outdone herself with this – it will positively melt in your mouth. Give that dog of yours a taste, if he's behaving himself."   
  
Abby grinned again, blinking the snowflakes out of her eyes as she took the box. "Thank you. I just might." She fumbled for her purse, but Mr. Cleaves held up a large hand to stop her.   
  
"Compliments of the establishment, Miss Loomis," he said. "Happy Christmas to you."   
  
On impulse, Abby stepped forward and threw her free arm as far as it would reach around his burly shoulder. Though taken somewhat aback by the gesture, Mr. Cleaves gave her a fatherly pat on the back and sent her and her parcels off with a hearty wave. A joyful spirit danced throughout her as she made her way home, watching her footsteps move carefully across the slick ground. Sirius would laugh at her terribly if she arrived home bearing the signs of a snowy tumble on her cloak.   
  
_Yes, it's going to be a happy Christmas, indeed._   
  
After dinner that evening, Abby pushed aside the sofa, quickly Banished the questionable things she found there, and laid out a large expanse of deep blue flannel on the cottage floor. Sirius sat at the kitchen table, mounting an attack on Honeydukes' largest red and green box of Quidditch Cordials. Abby pointed her white chalk pencil surreptitiously in his direction and whispered a few hushed words to it, then set in on the cloth and watched as it began to trace a set of men's robes. The hue would bring out the hints of blue in his eyes so nicely…   
  
"Dish ish great," Sirius mumbled, his teeth slightly glued together by a Caramel Quaffle. He chewed the sticky confection a few more times and swallowed. "What do they put in these? They're fabulous."   
  
"I'm not sure," Abby called out, glancing back over her shoulder, "but if you continue at that pace, I'll never have a chance to find out."   
  
Sirius looked up guiltily, but only for a moment, as he then popped a Bludger Bon-Bon in his mouth with relish. Shaking her head, Abby turned her attention back to her robemaking. She did love these scissors – they almost seemed like the sixth and seventh fingers of her right hand, and they cut through fabric so smoothly…   
  
The rustle of paper wrappers caused her to look up again. Sirius was rummaging though the box in earnest pursuit of any remaining sweets, and if she did not act soon –   
  
"Oh, save a Sugar Snitch for me, will you? They're my fav – "   
  
Too late. The crumpled gold foil wrapper in his hand and the lump in his cheek betrayed him. Abby flashed Sirius an Unforgivable Glare, but smiled as she returned to her cutting.   
  
"Don't worry," she said, concentrating as she cut into the flannel. "I made Rose Sooker a lovely set of curtains last summer. I'm certain she'll give me another box or two, which I now know better than to give _you_ access to. I'll send her a quick owl tomorrow to ask."   
  
Sirius dropped the wrapper on the table, for once looking interested in something other than the sweets. "You have an owl?" he asked, his voice a little hurried.   
  
Abby paused, setting down her scissors. "I do. Well, Gladrags does. Hubert. He's very good at sensing when I need to send post. Do – do you need to use him? You're welcome to, at any time."   
  
He nodded gratefully, but then paused with a trace of apprehension. "Will he know to come if I leave my post outside the house?"   
  
_I don't think Hubert will give away your whereabouts, Sirius, but I understand._   
  
"Of course," Abby said casually. "I often leave letters on the sill of the front window. He's uncannily good at delivering things – I trust him completely."   
  
Sirius smiled in satisfaction and threw the empty sweets box aside. Abby rolled her eyes as a shower of empty wrappers cascaded to the floor. She would have to badger him to pick them up later. She hated to nag him about things like that, but this was not a wizarding youth hostel, for Helga's sake. Besides, he seemed to somewhat like the attention. Dementors probably did not fuss much over their charges…   
  
At that thought, Abby began to wonder again why Sirius had not sought out his family after his escape. He'd had a younger brother at Hogwarts, hadn't he? And what of his parents? She could not recall their names, but they had been in the papers at the time of Sirius' trial. Or had he even had a trial? Her mind awash in speculation, Abby felt as though she were coming dangerously close to wanting to ask Sirius a few personal questions. Although three weeks was a relatively short time, it was long enough to make her want to put aside a few pretenses and know more about the man staying in her home. She did not mind taking that first step, just so long as he did not want to know anything else about her. That, of course, was still not permitted.   
  
Sirius did not seem to notice her deep musings – his attention was now centered on the box of trinkets and baubles that Abby's father had promised long ago to send. It had arrived just that afternoon, and Abby had planned to sort out the contents and see if any of the pieces might do for Christmas gifts. But now Sirius was rifling though the box with what she knew to be an almost exhausting curiosity, making a jumble of everything. He paused from his hunt and held up a lacquered red object.   
  
"Any idea what this is?" he asked, turning the oblong piece around in the light.   
  
"Oh, haven't you seen those?" Abby gave little thought to her reply, but she winced as soon as the words left her mouth.   
  
_No, you fool – he's been in Azkaban. Of course he hasn't seen them._   
  
She forced herself to continue, grateful that she was not very visible from the kitchen table. "They're rather handy penknives, made by the Dornomore Company. They'll open anything, really. I believe they're based on a gadget the Muggles use."   
  
Abby craned her neck and peered over the sofa a bit, hoping she had not touched a nerve with Sirius. He was preoccupied with folding open the many appendages of the knife, however, and did not appear to notice her gaffe. Abby's eyes brightened as she saw his boyish delight in tinkering with the object. If such a simple thing could make him happy, she would have to set him to fixing up a few things around the cottage.   
  
Unexpectedly, Sirius glanced up from the penknife and caught Abby fully in the act of observing him. She started to turn her head away, feeling more than a little foolish, but he caught her eye and smiled. The boyishness in his demeanor extended to the way he hesitantly opened his mouth as if to ask her something. When no question came after a few seconds, Abby smiled in return.   
  
"Would you like to have that?" she finally asked.   
  
"Really? You don't have a need for it?"   
  
"Not at all. But really, Sirius, you know you're welcome here," she teased. "There's no need for breaking and entering. Of course, you are entirely welcome to raid the Boormans' and take back the crystal goblets they borrowed from me two years ago."   
  
Sirius gave a brief nod of thanks and pocketed the penknife, continuing to poke around the box for other treasures. As the remaining trinkets were decidedly feminine in nature, he soon abandoned his search and came to rest on the sofa. He watched in silence as Abby continued to cut through the flannel, placing robe panels and scraps in two neat piles.   
  
"What are you making?" he asked at length, leaning forward to rest his forearms on his knees.   
  
"Robes," she said, trying to stifle a snort of laughter. Really, it was rather obvious that she was not working on a set of trousers.   
  
"For yourself?"   
  
Abby turned to Sirius and screwed up her face in an expression of dismay. "I certainly hope this isn't my size," she laughed, holding up a piece in front of her. "Thank you for so kindly diminishing my self-esteem. No, they're for a lout I know. I'm sure he'll rip, stain and generally disregard them in every possible way."   
  
Now Sirius laughed, adopting a look of mock indignation.   
  
"Now, that's an unfair assumption to make."   
  
"Is it?" Abby said. "I've already seen what chasing small game has done to your other robes. And why would you think they're for you, anyway?"   
  
Sirius shook his head and leaned back against the sofa, throwing his arms up to concede defeat. He watched as she maneuvered about, cutting around the curves and angles of the tracings, and Abby suddenly began to wish that Sirius were sitting at the kitchen table as he was before. She had to look rather silly, creeping around on the floor in such a manner.   
  
_Perhaps if I hunt up another box of sweets, he'll go back there._   
  
"Why aren't you using your wand?" he inquired. "Like you did that one night?"   
  
Abby shrugged her shoulders, pausing to think. In all truth, she was not quite sure why she was making the robes by hand. It certainly took longer.   
  
"This is the way I first learned to sew," she replied, after a moment of reflection. "I suppose it reminds me of my mum. And…" she added with an angelic smile, "I know that by making them this way, the recipient will feel all the more guilty if he doesn't care for them properly."   
  
Sirius snorted in reply, reclining once more on the sofa. He stayed quiet as Abby finished cutting out and folding up a few more pieces.   
  
"Why wouldn't your door open for me?" he asked abruptly.   
  
"What?" Abby turned around again, unsure if she had heard him correctly.   
  
"Your door," he said, "It wouldn't open for me."   
  
Abby's scissors stopped in the middle of the cloth, her cut veering off to the right of the tracing. It almost sounded as though Sirius, or Padfoot, or Snuffles, or whoever he was, might have tried the door on more than one occasion.   
  
"It's warded," Abby said slowly, feeling that she really needed to learn to think more quickly on her feet. Although, she observed, she might actually be able to tell the truth this time. She tried to keep her voice even and unhurried for her next words. "The spells were a gift from Dumbledore. So I'd have a little privacy from the Boormans' noise and, well, from their very existence. That's why the back garden is protected, too. Their children would come in and rummage around while I was at the shop."   
  
_And, they didn't let me pursue ancient magical arts in my cellar in peace._   
  
The answer seemed to satisfy Sirius, or so Abby thought. She was grateful the robemaking gave her an excuse to keep her face away from his, as she knew she would have more difficulty answering to his face. The residents of Hogsmeade already thought they knew everything there was to know about Abigail Loomis, which meant she was very much out of practice being on the receiving end of such questions.   
  
The empty box of Quidditch Cordials, which Sirius had left perched precariously on the edge of the kitchen table, then decided to fall onto the floor. He started at the sound, and the sight almost made Abby want to giggle, until she remembered that he probably had very good reason to twitch at sudden noises. She flinched, feeling that she might never really understand what made Sirius Black's mind work.   
  
The sight of sweets wrappers littering the floor reminded Abby of another subject she had been meaning to broach with Sirius. Dumbledore had owled her three days ago to request a meeting for the evening after this. She hesitated to tell him where she was going, but she did not have the heart to think up a suitable fib to explain her absence. Hopefully, he would trust her to keep his location safe. But even more daunting than this was the imminent challenge of how she might avoid telling Dumbledore that she had all but discarded her weaving in the last few weeks. Even during previous standstills, she had always kept up her research or tinkered around with different potions. But not this time, and truth be told, she did not miss it. Not one bit.   
  
"You're picking those up, you know," she joked with forced effort, straining to keep her voice light as she continued. "Oh, I almost forgot to tell you! I'm to drop by Hogwarts tomorrow after work, to bring a Christmas gift to Dumbledore."   
  
Sirius looked at her, his expression guarded. "Do you know Dumbledore well?"   
  
Abby had almost forgotten that he – or Padfoot, rather – had taken a part in her last visit to Hogwarts. She wondered how she could have let that slip her mind when Sirius was always grunting and growling like Padfoot, especially when annoyed. Not quite knowing how to answer him, she gathered up more scraps of flannel and hoped illogically that the question, if ignored, might slip away into the air.   
  
"You see him often then, don't you?" he persisted.   
  
So much for that hope. Abby's mouth opened uncertainly, but as before, she realized that the best she could do was to simply tell the truth. If he were to ever call her bluff on the information, at least she would not forget what she had said.   
  
"Yes, from time to time," she replied. "He's been a friend to me since I left Hogwarts. And he doesn't trust just anyone to create those fantastic ensembles."   
  
"So he wants only the best, does he?" Sirius said, causing Abby to note the utterly charming way in which one corner of his mouth pulled up when he grinned. She gave her chin a grand toss into the air.   
  
"Why yes, he does," she said haughtily, before succumbing to a giggle. With a shy glance at Sirius, she went back to her cutting, accompanied by the crackling of the fire and the sound of her scissor blades. She was so focused on the outline of the last sleeve that Sirius' next question caught her completely unawares.   
  
"Are your parents alive?"   
  
_My, he is full of questions tonight._   
  
Her eyes opening widely, Abby sat back on her heels and rested her scissors on her leg. This was entirely new territory for them. To be sure, they had spoken of some personal things – clothing shops and hippogriffs – but nothing of this nature had entered into their conversation before. The question was innocuous enough, but Abby feared it all the same. The details of her personal life had been under lock and key for a very long time, so long that she felt the lock had rusted over ages ago. Even if she had wanted to truly open up to someone earlier, doing so might have well been impossible. The need for secrecy was too well entrenched, but then, Sirius had trusted _her_, in a way…   
  
Finally, Abby took a deep breath and answered him.   
  
"My dad is, but he's not in Britain. My mum passed on eight years ago. After she was gone, Dad couldn't stand to be in the house by himself. He's been with the Ministry in Paris ever since."   
  
"Did your mum work?" Sirius inquired.   
  
"Only in the home," Abby replied, a meaningful glint in her eye. Mum had really done quite a lot of magical work in the home, especially at her loom. "Although she went to a lot of Ministry functions with Dad. That was almost a career in and of itself."   
  
Abby paused, training her eyes on the scissors so as not to see Sirius' face when she ventured a question of her own.   
  
"And yours?"   
  
The seconds that passed were painful. Abby could almost hear the pounding of her heart, the uneasy turning of her stomach. She should have kept her mouth shut.   
  
"They're dead, but I ceased to be their son long before that," Sirius answered, in a voice steeped in bitterness.   
  
Abby continued not to look at him, dreading the look she might see in his eyes. She would not ask anything else – given his circumstances, there were probably no happy answers to any question she might pose. With a small sigh, she looked at the little slivers of blue flannel that covered the floor in front of her. Her cutting was completed, so she raised her wand and whisked the panels to her workbench and the scraps to the dustbin. She had assumed that their conversation was also finished for the night, which was why Sirius' voice caught her by surprise when he next spoke.   
  
"Who was your friend who played Quidditch? 'Flaming Quaffle', remember?" he asked.   
  
The clanking sound of scissors falling to the floor echoed throughout the cottage. Abby stared forward, keeping her eyes focused on the tattered slippers to the side of the hearth, trying her best not to blink. She felt an oncoming surge of tears, and she would be hexed if she were going to cry in front of Sirius Black. Blast him! She had not anticipated this.   
  
"William Lowby," she answered at length, her voice tight. "He was the Hufflepuff Keeper in my fifth year."   
  
Sirius remained quiet, and Abby eventually glanced over her shoulder. He had leaned back into the sofa, arms crossed, his forehead creased in concentration.   
  
"Tall, brown hair?" he said. "I think James and I might have played against him once. A quiet fellow, wasn't he?"   
  
Despite her uneasiness at this line of questioning (and the fact that Sirius appeared to have a very good memory for something she had mentioned only briefly), Abby smiled sadly to herself. Once they had become a couple, Will had never been quiet. He had never had any trouble telling her what he thought of her eyes, and her laugh, and her lips. The fleeting memory of happier times faded as her heart began to pound with a dull, familiar ache. Before the memory of soft words and stolen moments in Hufflepuff Turret could swallow her up entirely, she forced her attention back to Sirius.   
  
"Yes," she replied simply, with an air of finality. She desperately hoped the answer would appease Sirius, but he apparently was not planning to let the topic go quite yet.   
  
"Why doesn't he ever stop by?" he asked, his tone almost conversational, yet certainly deliberate.   
  
Abby stared at Sirius, her face obviously pained. Why was he asking these things? Couldn't he just let the subject well enough alone? She turned to face the fire as her stomach began to lurch even more. Jaw clenched, eyes shut, she sat there, afraid of the sounds that might come out of her mouth were she to open it. Everyone in Hogsmeade already knew this information. Even the new girls who came from outside the village to work at Gladrags were quickly apprised of "Miss Loomis' situation". Abby had never been asked to relate the circumstances herself, and although part of her ached to get the information out now, she was not sure that she even could.   
  
"Patrick McKinnon," she said faintly. "Did you know Patrick McKinnon, in Ravenclaw? He and Will were cousins, and that summer – the summer after my last year at Hogwarts – Will went to visit him, and – and – "   
  
She got no further. Her voice broke, and the wave of emotion that she had been endeavoring to suppress broke over her, churning her up in its power and slamming her down hard. It had been months since she had cried over Will, and suddenly, Abby was very, very angry with Sirius Black. He had no right to bring this up. He had no part in this, no understanding of what she had been through. Though her role as heartsick girlfriend had been fully exposed to all of Hogsmeade and beyond, the feelings that accompanied it were hers alone. The thought of Will had always kept Abby going, the futility of it being, in some sad and pathetic way, a constant in her life. But lately, that constant felt as though it were being ripped away from her. Or more accurately, she thought with an ache, she had been setting it aside.   
  
The emotional muddle hung on Abby like a water-soaked blanket. She had lied to Will once before, a lie about which he would never know the truth. To abandon his memory now seemed doubly traitorous. Sirius Black, curse him, had not helped matters by bringing up things that were clearly none of his concern.   
  
Abby felt her fingernails dig painfully into her leg as she clenched it, trying not to visibly shake. She pressed her lips together tightly, but the ugly sob that wrenched its way out of her throat finally gave her away. She collapsed against the sofa, threw her head in her arms, and let out months' worth of tears in an angry cry.   
  
After the tears were spent, Abby turned her face slightly toward the fire and tried to reclaim her breath, feeling more ridiculous than she had ever felt with Sirius before. She did not want to see him now, if for no other reason than her face was probably a mess of violent purple blotches. She heard the rustle of his robes, and she hoped he would have the decency to go outside after her embarrassing outburst, or at least to the other side of the room. But he didn't. As Abby sat there, her shoulders still rising and falling from the exertion of the sobs, a tentative hand reached over and grasped her shoulder.   
  
Abby stiffened at the touch. She had certainly wrestled with Padfoot before, but Sirius had never, ever, done this. She was very conscious of his closeness, the sound of his breath, and the fact that although most of his hand rested on her shoulder, his fingers brushed against her neck. She closed her eyes for a moment, soaking in the fragment of contact, but soon clenched her jaw again, reminding herself that she was very, very angry with Sirius Black. He should have let her cling to her rock of miserable security in peace. Still trembling, Abby shook off his hand and stood up without a backward glance.   
  
"I'm tired. I'm going to bed. Good night," she said flatly, walking straight to her bedroom. She did not see the look on his face or the awkward way his hand still hung in the air.   
  
The following evening, Abby shifted nervously outside the door to Dumbledore's office. As if the events of the night had not been confusing enough, she now had to stand before the headmaster and somehow hope that he would not see through her terribly transparent excuses. Even though she was rather disappointed in herself for neglecting her calling, she felt as though she would crumple up and die if Dumbledore expressed any displeasure. And then there was the matter of the dog she had told him about on her last visit, who had turned out not to be much of a dog after all.   
  
Biting her lip, she lifted her hand and rapped on the door. It swung open at her touch, and Abby saw Dumbledore sitting not before his desk, as was his usual custom, but in an armchair by the fire, stretching his stocking-clad feet toward the flames. His face lit up as he saw her in the doorway, and he happily beckoned her over to a neighbouring chair.   
  
"Come in, dear, and please be seated! The blaze is delightful."   
  
Abby hung her cloak on a stand near the door and crossed the room, lowering herself into the armchair. Dumbledore must have charmed the fire somehow – the minute she placed her toes before it, a wave of warmth covered her like a thick quilt and a mug of steaming cocoa. It was incredibly comfortable, and she could easily imagine why he might prefer this spot to his desk. She was very much tempted to close her eyes and take a nap.   
  
Dumbledore wordlessly passed her a gold dish of what she confirmed on second glance to be Bertie Botts' Every Flavour Beans. Abby peered into the dish with caution – she could not spot any of the usual dodgy beans, but one could never know with absolute certainty (she had once given them up for a year after a disastrous kiwi-sauerkraut mix-up). She settled on several beans that looked like orange marmalade, and she was even more pleased when she tasted ripe apricot.   
  
"Sir, I may be wrong," she said with a soft laugh, "but I thought at one time that you had an aversion to these."   
  
"I have persuaded dear old Bertie to provide me with an assortment of requested flavours on occasion," Dumbledore chuckled. "He is quite curmudgeonly about it, to be sure, but I have promised him he may use my written endorsement on the packaging. I consider it a fair trade."   
  
Abby smiled and sampled a few more beans, delighted to find a genuine kiwi one in the bunch. She leaned back into the soft upholstery of the chair, and she and the headmaster enjoyed their sweets in silence.   
  
"I must tell you, Abigail," Dumbledore said, after a time, "you were quite right concerning those toffees, although they did prove to be quite amusing at the next staff meeting. Professor Vector was rather upset when she tripped over her tongue – literally – but as she has not resigned yet, I do believe things have been smoothed over. You have quite a sharp eye."   
  
"Blame Alastor Moody, sir! I shan't tell you what he used to do with raisins," Abby giggled.   
  
Dumbledore laughed, and the silence resumed. It was an odd meeting, Abby mused – he had not yet asked for a status report, nor did he seem to have any intention to do so. But she had no plans to complain, and she certainly was not going to offer any information for which he did not ask.   
  
"I never get accustomed to seeing the school empty, sir," she did say, as her handful of beans dwindled. "I'm glad there's a fair number staying for the Yule Ball this year."   
  
Dumbledore glanced over and smiled kindly. "We do have a good number with us at present, although, in years past, the holiday has presented an opportunity for me to better acquaint myself with the students who have stayed. Harry Potter, for example, has been here every Christmas."   
  
"Yes, it's terribly sad that he has no family to go to."   
  
"His remaining blood relatives are not – approving, shall we say? – of Harry's wizarding heritage, but he is not wholly without other family," Dumbledore said thoughtfully. "He has a living godfather, you know."   
  
Abby stared at the headmaster, her eyebrows raised in curiosity. She had never heard this before, although it did make sense. But who had been so close to James and Lily Potter that they would name him godfather to their only son? Peter Pettigrew? But he was dead, allegedly killed by… Abby halted that train of thought before it got any further. Remus Lupin, then? But if he were Harry's godfather, would he have not stayed at Hogwarts? Or in the area, at least? Abby racked her brain, trying to remember any other of the Potters' acquaintances. She suddenly realized that although the headmaster had not continued speaking, his mouth was still slightly open, pausing almost as though to invite her to question further.   
  
"Who is Harry's godfather, sir?" she asked finally. "Is he a wizard?"   
  
"Yes, he is," Dumbledore replied. "He is Sirius Black."   
  
Abby felt as though the Whomping Willow had clouted her across the head for a second time as she stared at Dumbledore, astounded. Scattered bits of information and observation began to take slow shape in her mind as she let out the breath she had been holding.   
  
_Of course. I should have known._   
  
Although a stunned expression might be expected from anyone following such a disclosure, the headmaster watched Abby with curious eyes as he continued.   
  
"Sadly, as we all know, horrible circumstances have kept Harry from ever knowing his godfather."   
  
Abby was certain Dumbledore could see the confusion swirling in her head. Despising herself for the falsehood, but not knowing what else to do, she shakily asked –   
  
"Was – was Sirius Black ever apprehended, sir? The Daily Prophet says so little about him nowadays."   
  
"Apprehended?" Dumbledore said softly, his eyes showing an odd twinkle behind his half-moon spectacles. "Perhaps he has been apprehended. I am not the one who knows best, Abigail. Yet until the Ministry decides on his fate, I fear these times are still very dangerous for Sirius Black."   
  
He turned to face the fire and stretched out his feet closer toward the warmth, leaving Abby to her bewilderment. Moments passed as he sifted deftly through the remaining beans. Abby remained mute, her mind and mouth incapable of movement.   
  
"The night is growing late, my dear," Dumbledore said at length. "You had best be on your way."   
  
The finality in his voice saved Abby from further pretension. She had only been in his office for less than twenty minutes, but she knew without a doubt that the conversation was over.   
  
Handing Dumbledore the box containing his Christmas gift, a bejeweled spectacle case, Abby bid the headmaster farewell and meekly prepared to leave. The meeting had so unsettled her, Abby was halfway to her cottage before she realized that Dumbledore had not asked her a word about the invisibility cloak or her other weaving endeavor. She sighed, feeling, for all of her thirty-three years, still a child. There was probably nothing she could keep from Dumbledore, anyway.   
  
Sirius was quiet when Abby finally returned home, but she did not pay him much mind. She had much to ponder, and she wanted only to unburden her mind with sleep. She would not remember the next morning that late in the night, when a cracking log in the fire had caused her to blearily open her eyes, she had seen Sirius standing in her bedroom doorway. A piece of parchment with emerald-green writing clutched in his hand, he had remained there for a long moment, watching as her eyes floated shut once more. When she woke, Sirius was already gone. And as Christmas and the New Year came and went, and as spring began to creep into Hogsmeade, he was gone still.   
  
A/N: Much gratitude goes to **Ellen** and **Fiat Incantatum** (real weavers!) for acting as valuable technical advisors for this chapter. The "finishing frame" is Fiat Incantatum's invention. "Sheila the Veela" comes from **Violet Azure's** delightful "High Spirits: A Hogsmeade Tale".   
  



	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**   
  
On a busy Saturday in March, Abby surveyed the sea of Hogwarts students that drifted throughout Gladrags, kept an eye cagily focused on the dish of mini-quills near the front door (some students tended to help themselves to _handfuls_ on their way out, rather than to a polite one), and for the twelfth time that day, she thought of France. She had returned only a week ago, having spent most of February there, and now that she was home, Hogsmeade had never seemed more confining.   
  
Abby did not quite know how she had made it through the Christmas and New Year festivities. Rosmerta had coerced her to a few parties in her flat above The Three Broomsticks, but Abby had no recollection of the hands she might have shaken or the toasts in which she might have half-heartedly joined. Work was simpler. There, she could easily mend a seam, prattle away, and flatter a customer, all without an ounce of true emotion. She kept that for home, where she would sit on the sofa and stare blankly at the haphazardly folded pile of men's robes on the opposite end.   
  
The first night that Sirius Black, and not Snuffles, had stayed at her cottage, he had left his ragged prison robes wadded up by the fire. The next day, Abby had offered to give the rags an extra nudge into the cinders. They had to have been an unpleasant visual reminder to him, she reckoned, and they were a rather unpleasant olfactory reminder to her. But Sirius, confound him, had wanted to keep the tatters. Abby had not questioned his motives, but she did give him a bucket, a bar of strong soap, and an invitation to clean them himself on the back step. After they had dried, Abby had balled the robes up and stuffed them in the far reaches of an unused cupboard. She had never really supposed that he would ever want them back – they were not much of a keepsake.   
  
When Abby had awoken that December morning and found Sirius gone, she had not thought much of the situation, only assuming that he had got an early start on the day. But when she had returned home that evening, Abby had noticed and counted the pile of robes on the sofa, finding each and every article of clothing she had ever made for Sirius. Padfoot was covered with his fur, to be certain, but unless Sirius planned on going starkers during the human portion of his day, he needed _something_. Then she checked the cupboard. The Azkaban robes were missing, and beyond the hurt of his disappearance, she could not help but feel a painful sting at the thought that her offerings were not worth taking with him.   
  
An owl from Dumbledore had come at Abby's worst point, when she not longer cared what day of the week it was, whether the storeroom was adequately stocked, or even if the Gladrags till was correctly balanced. Taffeta Bussell, Abby's former mentor, had written to tell Dumbledore of her new position at France's most prestigious school of wizarding fashion, the Academie de Bellecouture. Madame Bussell planned to leave her cottage and enchanted silkworm farm in Provénce one week a month to instruct the school's students on the finer points of the trade.   
  
Despite her gloom, Abby had giggled at the thought of what Taffeta might be teaching; it was Madame Bussell who had first shown her how a bit of Billywig sting might be stealthily stitched into a buttonhole, making it difficult for particularly cantankerous customers to match a button to the subtly shifting opening. She had also taught Abby to appreciate a finely cast Invisi-Pin. But Abby did not dwell on that bit of history too long – it only brought back the memory of a more recent evening spent happily attacking soap bubbles.   
  
Madame Bussell had written to request Abby's assistance in teaching the advanced students who would soon be leaving school. As she knew of Abby's magical gift, she deemed it wise to first ask if Dumbledore might spare Abby. Gladrags higher management had already given their approval, as Bellecouture held an enormous amount of prestige in the industry, and Gladrags was always eager to make a good impression on its students before Madame Malkin's establishment could woo them away.   
  
The journey to France would not have been too demanding, had it not been for the diversity of travel required and the difficulties at customs – Abby reckoned she must have used each method of magical transportation _(except for Apparition, may the D.M.T. be forever cursed)_ thrice over, and she arrived at Bellecouture a rumpled, tired mess.   
  
The students knew only her name and position in the Gladrags organization, but they welcomed her warmly. As Abby presented throughout the course of the week, they listened to her lectures attentively, asked her opinions on individual projects, and sought her advice as to different career fields. To be admired with no interference from her scholastic or romantic history was an unexpected experience, yet certainly a satisfying one. It almost made her forget that she had ever met a large black dog and the man that came with him.   
  
Beyond the much-needed boost to Abby's flagging self-esteem, the reunion with Madame Bussell proved quite fortuitous in another way. Her research completed, Abby was ready to begin the weaving project that Dumbledore had asked of her months ago. The reprieve from worrying and working over the Invisibility Cloak came as a breath of fresh air. Grandmother Connelly's loom had been cleaned and prepared, but Abby was still hesitant to begin without first consulting an expert, and she knew of no one more knowledgeable in the workings of cloth. Madame Bussell's workmanship was not that of a Weaver, but it was certainly magical. At the end of Abby's lectures, the women traveled to Provénce for a day of discussion (with Abby in mind, Madame Bussell had already arranged a direct Floo connection).   
  
"I want to create a garment that will capture the conversations of its wearer in the cloth," Abby had explained at the onset of their meeting, sitting down to a table of cheese and croissants. "When magically activated, I hope for the thread to Transfigure the words to ink and create a permanent record of the wearer's doings. I know, this does go a bit beyond mere hemming."   
  
Nodding her head, Madame Bussell seated herself at the table and spread a napkin across her elegant, plum-colored silk robes. Abby stifled a smile. The Saturday afternoon, still claim to February's chill, begged for comfortable clothes and thick socks. Taffeta had certainly not changed; she would not empty a dustbin without being impeccably dressed.   
  
"I don't know that it's been tried before, but that doesn't mean it can't be done, Abigail," Madame Bussell replied matter-of-factly. "Have you worked out a name, dear? You really must choose one, or some opportunist will come along later and take credit for the spell herself. I'll never forgive myself for not laying claim to the Closure Charm. Hospital gowns have never been the same, and yet no one knows to thank me for them. That cursed Satina Mungo! If it weren't for her family connections, she'd never have got her name on the label…" Madam Bussell's voice and attention trailed off for a moment. "But the _name_, dear – do tell."   
  
Abby hung her head rather shyly and tore off a piece of her croissant. Though her mentor treated her as a confidante and equal, part of her would always feel like the sad, shy fifteen year-old girl that she had been when Taffeta had first taken her in. Abby had not shared the name of her innovation with anyone yet, not even Dumbledore. Sirius would surely have teased her about the alliteration. She took a deep breath.   
  
"'Whisper Weave'," she said. "I plan to call it 'Whisper Weave'."   
  
Madame Bussell widened her brown eyes appreciatively and gave a few quick claps with her hands.   
  
"Ooooh, very nice. Very nice indeed." She sighed emphatically, selecting a piece of cheese from the platter. "If only I had been born with a gift such as yours. I think I might have had quite a knack for espionage."   
  
Abby snickered. She had forgotten how enjoyable Taffeta's theatrics were. "Would you like mine? You'd be quite welcome to it. But thank you – I like the ring of that name myself."   
  
Madame Bussell giggled herself, then, putting her cheese down, grew more serious. She twined her manicured fingers together and raised them to pursed lips.   
  
"Now, tell me the specifics, Abigail. I think I may be able to help you."   
  
Abby felt as if she were a fifth year once more, presenting an idea for an extra-credit Transfiguration project for Professor McGonagall's approval. Though she was sure of her ultimate objective and the spells necessary to reach it, she was unsure as to what kind of cloth might be impressive enough to catch Lucius Malfoy's fancy.   
  
_Such a shame that "Methods of Enticing Dark Wizards" wasn't part of the Hogwarts curriculum – I might have learned a pointer or two._   
  
"I think the magic would hold up best in a cloak – it would provide for larger pieces of uninterrupted cloth. I want to create a fabric that would be both light enough for the spring and autumn months, yet warm enough for winter."   
  
_So please don't plan any wicked deeds for the summer months, Lucius._   
  
"It must also be fine and luxurious enough to attract the attention of a rich, vain, and rather evil wizard," she continued, beginning to feel rather apprehensive. "Oh blast, now that I've said that out loud, I'm getting a case of nerves."   
  
Madame Bussell reached across the table and gently patted Abby's hand, then silently rose and crossed to the other side of the room to a large cupboard. Ducking her impeccably arranged coiffure (which Abby knew could no longer be naturally black), she reached far into the cupboard's depths and emerged with her arms full. Returning to the table, she tipped a heap of skeins onto the table and pushed them over to Abby.   
  
"Take these, dearest. I've traveled a bit in my life, and my seamstress blood has always compelled me to bring back a bit of thread from each place I've been. Malkin has always thought me a bit daft – she can't understand acquiring these things if you don't have the mind to actually use them – but for me, most of the pleasure lies in simply possessing the materials."   
  
Abby stared at the lustrous threads in wonder and disbelief. "Oh Taffeta, I can't take these. I simply can't – "   
  
"Nonsense, Abigail," Madame Bussell replied with a smile. "It will empty my cupboards and give me a very good reason to accumulate more."   
  
Abby dabbed at her eyes, and then looked up at her former mentor gratefully. "And you won't hate me if I dye them black?"   
  
"Not at all. The very best of luck to you, child. I dare say you'll need it – that wizard certainly sounds like a nasty sort. Now, let's discuss which threads will work best together…"   
  
Abby recalled how she and Madame Bussell had sat for hours, planning the construction of the cloak. The pages of notes in Taffeta's elaborate, flowing script were in her cellar right now. Grandmother Connelly's loom was threaded with the soft fibers, and soon Abby would commence with the…   
  
Abby tore her thoughts away from weaving for a moment to observe a scene in the far corner of the showroom. A young man whom she recognized as Janet Diggory's son, Cedric, stood on a pedestal, and Miriam, a new seamstress who had been hired on Chanella's recommendation, was letting out his school robes. Apparently, his shoulders had recently widened. And apparently, Abby noticed with a slight smirk, Miriam seemed in no hurry to finish her task as she moved about and measured the handsome boy.   
  
"Didn't make much sense to buy new robes now, you know, since the year's almost over for me," Cedric was saying.   
  
A petite girl with dark hair and eyes had accompanied Cedric into the shop, and she sat in a comfortable nook off to the side of the pedestal. She was hardly Cedric's only company, however. A circle of girls clustered around a neighboring jewelry display. Abby knew there was nothing _that_ fascinating in the case, and the girls were hardly discreet. From the snatches of conversation that floated over to Abby, she knew their interest was clearly more focused on biceps than brooches.   
  
The girl with Cedric was reading a book, but Abby noticed that she took an ample number of opportunities to look up and flash Cedric a pretty smile. Cedric seemed only too happy to smile back. Abby watched them for a few wistful moments before turning her head away. She had to go and see on things at the register. She would only take a quick, self-indulgent moment to think back on Paris…   
  
The second part of Dumbledore's letter had asked if she would like to take a fortnight off to visit her father after the Bellecouture engagement. Abby had not hesitated to agree. Over a year had passed since she had last seen her dad. Of course, the demands of his job would keep him in the office most of the time, her father warned, but certainly Paris boasted enough attractions to hold her interest while he worked. She would stay in his flat in the Rue de Mentarie, the city's first, most ancient wizarding street.   
  
Though he was still the dear father she had always known, Hollister Loomis had altered in many ways since he had last lived in England. Overcome then with grief at his wife's physical deterioration and death, he had been loath to leave their otherwise empty house for months. Abby had noticed changes in the past since then, but they were more readily apparent now – his step was lighter, his laughter more quick to surface. Even his white hair had grown out, Abby observed, the cascade of white waves giving him an air of some bohemian artist or writer. There had been a day when he would have been appalled if his hair reached even past his collar, but not now.   
  
Abby spent several days happily roaming the Rue de Mentarie's shopping district, poking her head in various shops, dining at outdoor cafés, and busily making notes on the current fashion trends of young French witches. The area's lighthearted atmosphere made her want to forget she had ever attended Hogwarts, ever moved to Hogsmeade, ever befriended a certain prison escapee. In fact, the thought of Sirius crossed her mind only briefly when she engaged in coquettish banter with a handsome waiter, Jacques, and later accepted his invitation to attend a dance on the street that evening.   
  
It had felt so nice to twirl about on the cobblestones as pretty music swirled out into the air overhead. It had been nicer still to feel the curve of Jacques' arm around her back as they moved under the streetlamps. Yet as the night grew late and Jacques walked Abby back to the flat, she grew unexpectedly sad, wondering if she would ever had the chance to stand with Sirius Black under the open night sky. Perhaps sensing her unease, Jacques left her at the door with only a kiss on her cheek and the voiced hope of her visiting his café again soon.   
  
Her time in Paris had shed light on a few other very interesting developments. On her second to last morning, Abby and her father had descended the one flight of stairs from his flat and set off for his work. He had chosen this dwelling, he had explained earlier, for the easy walk it provided to the Ministry's building. Though Apparition was always available, he liked the exercise. The workload of the day ahead was to be light, and so Abby accompanied her father to meet his colleagues and tour the offices.   
  
The scent of sweet, warm bread had greeted them immediately as they exited, leading Abby to close her eyes and breathe in the deliciousness. Paris _was_ getting better with each day! In the days previous, she had not paid much attention to the bakery on the ground floor. Today she noticed an older witch, a few tendrils of silver hair escaping her loose twist of curls, rearranging the red and white checked curtains in the front window. Seeing the duo, the woman adjusted the delicate wire frames of her glasses and raised her hand with a coy smile. Abby turned to her father with an open mouth to ask the woman's name, when to her surprise, she saw her father waving bashfully and smiling in return. Perhaps he had _other_ reasons for his choice of residence.   
  
"Daaaaad!" Abby cried, stretching the word out in several astounded syllables. "May I ask just who _that_ was?"   
  
Hollister became rather preoccupied with the loose cravat he wore atop his robes, seemingly oblivious to Abby's question until she nudged him in the arm.   
  
"Oh yes, her. Madame Belanger is her name. Yes, yes, a very nice woman. Makes excellent pastries. Ahem." He quickly returned to straightening his cravat, as an unfamiliar flush of color spread across his usually distinguished face. Abby smiled to herself and wisely refrained from commenting further until they reached the Ministry offices, where she was caught up instantly in the continual stir of wizards and witches who surrounded her father with papers to sign, reports to review, and appointments to confirm.   
  
"And would you believe this _is_ a slow day?" Hollister had laughed.   
  
Abby had realized quickly from the workers' polite, interested tones that she was known there simply as Hollister's daughter, not as a girl who could not make it past her fifth year of school. Encouraged, she had responded eagerly over lunch to questions regarding her profession, her business methods, and the current state of the international textile market. Her father had told her of the high points of his job and even shared a few grievances, including his office's inability for months now to secure a meeting with the Ministry's Head of International Magical Cooperation, Bartemius Crouch.   
  
"His assistant seems _enthusiastic_ enough, but it's Crouch we need to see. He'd better be careful, before these things grow entirely out of hand," Hollister had said.   
  
Warmed from the pleasant day, Abby had left the Ministry building late that afternoon, beginning the walk home with a light heart and a smile on her lips. Perhaps she would stop by the bakery and purchase some pastries for dessert. There was a person whose acquaintance she was eager to make. As her shoes tapped across the now familiar cobblestones of the Rue de Mentarie and the sun began to set across the street's quaint shop-fronts, Abby began to wonder how she would ever be able to return to Hogsmeade after experiencing this.   
  
That evening, Abby had sat on the floor of her father's flat, her legs tucked underneath her, trying her best to decipher France's wizarding paper, _L'Oracle_. Conversational French was a requirement of her job, and something she managed fairly well, even though Jacques had gently corrected several of her pronunciations. Written French, however, was another matter. Hollister sat in a nearby armchair, reading a book and nursing a glass of amber liquid. Upon her arrival, Abby had presented him with a bundle of white cheesecloth, which he had carefully unwrapped to reveal a long-necked bottle, capped with a red seal.   
  
"And this comes courtesy of The Three Broomsticks – thank Merlin it didn't break with all the Flooing I had to do to get here."   
  
"Rosmerta, you kind, kind woman," Hollister had murmured happily, holding the bottle up to the light. "We'll save this for a later night, shall we?"   
  
Now the bottle was uncorked, and father and daughter silently enjoyed their drinks, the box of delectables Abby had brought home earlier from the bakery, and each other's company. Until…   
  
"How goes your cloak, Abigail?" Hollister asked unexpectedly.   
  
Abby looked up curiously. She rarely spoke to her father about her weaving, a situation created mostly by virtue of the distance between them. Owls could be intercepted, and fireplace conversations were not always possible between countries.   
  
"It's mostly complete," she answered, "apart from the finishing. I suppose the cloak is magically destined for someone, and once I know who that person is, the final series of spells will reveal themselves to me. So far, they've been quite stubborn."   
  
She eased herself up onto the sofa and let out a deep sigh. "Mum never told you anything about the finishing process, did she?"   
  
Hollister angled his head thoughtfully. "She always said that the cloak chose the wearer, and that it was vital to make it for the right person. Each cloak needed the best possible start in life, for optimal results."   
  
Abby snorted lightly. Her mum had always been a touch dramatic. "She pinched some of that from Mr. Ollivander, didn't she?"   
  
"Yes, but I always pretended not to know," he laughed. A wisp of bittersweet nostalgia escaped him. "She was a remarkable woman, your mother."   
  
Caught up in reminisces, Abby and her father sat silently for a moment. "You must get lonely, Abigail," he said at length.   
  
"I get by," she shrugged, picking up a cushion from the sofa. "I have company from time to time."   
  
_Psychologically troubled, technically dangerous, poorly mannered, truly wonderful company._   
  
"Dad," Abby blurted out suddenly, "I've been feeling so resentful lately. I trust Dumbledore, but his decisions have directed over half my life. I'm not sure I want to do this much longer. I never asked to be a Weaver." She stared morosely at the carpet and hugged the cushion to her.   
  
"Nor did Albus ask to be Albus," Hollister noted, laying down his book. "But he is, and we should all be very grateful for it. He's accepted the obligations that life has put upon him. Trust me, dear – if you'd ever known his younger brother, you'd be very surprised that this all fell to Dumbledore."   
  
"But why do _I_ have to continue the craft?" Abby interjected. "I'm sure there are others more willing, although I have no ruddy idea who they are and where they might be. Dumbledore once told me that Weavers have never known each other's identities, unless they've happened to be in the same family. Dark wizards would never be able to locate all of us that way. I still don't understand why so much has to be laid on my plate, though. I really don't think I need to spend the remainder of my life weaving Invisibility Cloaks."   
  
"Actually, Abigail," Hollister said softly, "I believe you do. As far as I know, you're the last Weaver in Britain."   
  
Abby slumped guiltily as she heard her father's words. There would be plenty of time later to mull over that disclosure, she decided. Right now, knowing she would shortly return to Hogsmeade and all it held for her, she wanted only to release one more bit of self-pity.   
  
"That only _worsens_ my chances for romance, doesn't it?" she said with a wry laugh. "I'm already unable to promise a life of travel and great adventure. The loom isn't exactly portable, you know. And now I'm an even greater target for Voldemort's followers, although I doubt they'll ever suspect the likes of me. Who would _ever_ want what I have to offer?"   
  
Hollister smiled at his daughter, his eyes glowing kindly. "Your mother experienced many of the same sentiments, dear child, prior to our meeting," he said. "I'm sure there were times she would have preferred her single life once she was stuck with me, but we did manage to have a very happy life together. Yes, we did. And when the time is right, Abigail, you will find someone who will understand your calling and accept it as part of his life with you."   
  
"I'll have to take your word on that," she said with a sigh, helping herself to the last éclair. A note of mischievousness crept into her voice. "Do you think I'll be able to find someone who can make such delicious pastries?"   
  
Abby shielded her éclair, giggling, as a cushion sailed in her direction. And the next morning, she had left for home…   
  
_"Ouch!!"_   
  
A very full schoolbag, followed by a passing body, rudely interrupted Abby's musings. Their combined force knocked her slightly off her feet and painfully into a nearby pillar. Abby rubbed her hip gingerly, cursing the overcrowded showroom, until she saw the sheepish face of the gangly, freckled boy who turned around to apologize.   
  
"I'll be splinched," she said with a grin, setting her professional demeanor aside for a moment. "You certainly look like a Bill Weasley I once knew."   
  
"Yeah," the redheaded boy said, shifting awkwardly. "I'm Ron. Bill's kid brother. Uh, sorry about that. Are you okay?"   
  
"I'll live," Abby replied, smiling again as she marked the Weasley resemblance. "That _is_ a compliment, I'll have you know – Bill grew up to be one very handsome fellow."   
  
Ron blushed furiously; the girl to the right of him scowled.   
  
Abby extended her hand to the boy. "Abigail Loomis. Welcome to Gladrags Wizardwear."   
  
She then turned to Ron's companion, her greeting stopping on her lips as she wondered if the girl would be receptive to a sample bottle of Gilderoy Lockhart's Mane-Tamer Maintainer. She quickly decided that the wild thatch of curls was actually rather becoming, in its own way. Besides, people had been mentioning lately that the heavy perfume of the Lockhart potions never fully went away, and this girl looked like she preferred the scent of a properly musty library to that of a gardenia bush in full bloom.   
  
"And you are, dear?"   
  
"Hermione Granger," the girl replied in a businesslike manner.   
  
"A pleasure to meet you," Abby said warmly. "Give me a shout if you need anything."   
  
"Uh, thanks," Ron replied for the both of them, craning his long neck around. "Hey, where'd Harry get off to?"   
  
For the first time, Abby noticed a skinny, black-haired, bespectacled boy standing a few steps behind Ron and Hermione. He must have been the bearer of the brutal schoolbag. The boy stood still, staring blankly into the corner where Miriam was working. Abby was puzzled, until she peered back into the corner for herself. Oh, yes – Cedric Diggory. His rival in the Triwizard Tournament. Abby felt a pang of motherly sympathy. Poor Harry. He was probably feeling quite in over his head in all this, just as she was.   
  
"C'mon, mate," Ron was saying, tugging on Harry's arm. "Let's go and pick out some socks for Dobby, the nastier the better."   
  
"Harry, you should apologize," Hermione was whispering fervently. "Your bag knocked right into that witch."   
  
Jostled from his observations, Harry turned to Abby and mumbled an embarrassed apology. Abby looked fully at the tousled hair, the scarred forehead, and the bright green eyes for the first time. She helplessly tried to sort through the countless things she wanted to say to him, settling in the end on the most feeble and prosaic:   
  
"I'm fine – please don't trouble yourself. I'm Abigail Loomis, the general manager. Thank you for coming to Gladrags."   
  
_And by the way, my grandmother made your Invisibility Cloak._   
  
"Harry Potter," he mumbled in return.   
  
A wave of shoppers then cut between Abby and the trio; by the time the crowd cleared, the students had already started off for the sock display. Abby watched their retreating figures wistfully, but the students did not go far. An insolent, drawling voice soon stopped them, and Abby turned to see none other than Draco Malfoy standing behind her.   
  
"I normally replace my cloaks after a few months' wear," the blond-haired boy was saying quite audibly, "but as my mother chose this for me especially, I'll have a new lining put in and wear it until the end of the season. Perhaps then," he added, raising his voice even further, "I'll send it away to the _less fortunate_. Imagine – some families actually have to hand their worn-out rags down to the younger children. I'd rather _die_ first." With that, he shot a snide look in Ron Weasley's direction.   
  
Ron's face grew so red, Abby began to fear for the safety of her clothing displays. She had never had a brawl in the shop before, but considering that Draco Malfoy was the aggravator, she was almost curious to see what might happen. Ron advanced a few steps forward with clenched fists, but Hermione acted first.   
  
"Why don't you replace the lining with something warmer, Malfoy?" she called out. "You look so fetching in white fur!"   
  
Ron halted, looking back at Hermione with a strangely pleased, proud look. Harry, on the other hand, laughed so hard at her remark that he buckled over, clutching his stomach. Each time he tried to stand, his convulsive snorting and the weight of the schoolbag sent him down again. Eventually, Ron had to pull him back up.   
  
"Are you fond of furs, Mr. Potter?" Abby asked confusedly. She felt as though she was not quite grasping the meaning of the students' exchange.   
  
Harry snickered even more and leaned into Ron for support. "Only if they bounce!" he gasped, keeling over again. The two boys erupted into loud guffaws and walked away, elbowing each other in the side. Although Hermione rolled her eyes in their direction, she smiled fondly as she excused herself and went after her friends. Abby turned around again to see a very livid Draco.   
  
"She's incompetent," Draco snapped with a peevish gesture at Chanella, who had been handling his cloak. "I refuse to wait here any longer if I'm only going to be attended to by underlings. _You_ may serve me, Miss Loomis."   
  
Abby almost took a bite out of the inside of her cheek as she gave Draco a polite, controlled smile. For a second, she entertained the thought of throwing him bodily from the shop herself.   
  
_I never imagined that I might be the one to start a brawl!_   
  
"I'll be with you directly, Mr. Malfoy. Please give me a moment to speak with Miss Parker."   
  
Abby took Chanella by the arm and led her away, while Draco looked highly pleased at the possibility of a public chastisement.   
  
"Chanella," Abby whispered hurriedly when they were out of earshot. "I'm _so_ terribly sorry. Pay him no mind, dear. Can I trust you to see that Mr. Malfoy is sent out the door with a Chafing Charm today?" She gave Chanella's arm a reassuring squeeze before returning to Draco and his cloak.   
  
"Mr. Malfoy, I hate to keep you in the hustle and bustle out here," she said graciously, even giving him a small nod of apology. "Shall we move ourselves to another room, where I might attend to your cloak properly?"   
  
With a grunt of impatience, Draco followed Abby to a private fitting room. "Stupid Hufflepuff," he stopped to mutter as they passed the back corner. Cedric Diggory had stepped off the pedestal with his newly altered robes hanging quite nicely on his shoulders, nearly causing a swooning epidemic among his barely hidden admirers.   
  
In the fitting room, Abby did her best to wait slavishly on Draco and repair the damage that Hermione Granger's comment had done to his temper. After arrangements for the cloak were completed, Abby bowed her head courteously and took a deep breath.   
  
"Mr. Malfoy, if I may be so bold, may I ask if your mother would be interested in a private showing of our newest finery? I don't wish to inconvenience her with a visit to town, and so I would be more than happy to bring the merchandise to your family manor, if she so desires."   
  
Draco raised an eyebrow. "I'll ask her," he said shortly, before turning and leaving the room. Abby collected her things and followed him out, wondering again what she was getting herself into. As before, Ron Weasley disrupted her thoughts before they got much further.   
  
"Hermione! _Hermione!_ Ah, c'mon, don't ask that now!" his voice rang out.   
  
Abby turned to see Hermione Granger approaching her with blazing eyes and determined steps.   
  
"Gladrags doesn't use elf labor, does it?" the girl asked in a tight, clipped voice. "Because it really shouldn't. No business should. No person should. No country should. No – "   
  
Hermione seemed to realize suddenly that she was speaking rather brusquely, especially when her original question had not yet been answered. She hesitated, bit her lower lip, and tempered her words.   
  
"House-elves should have a say in their lives, that's all. And once I help them see that, once they _realize_..."   
  
Abby laughed good-naturedly. Hermione, though certainly opinionated, was endearing in her conviction.   
  
_Sharp as a pin, she is. I think I'd like to make her better acquaintance someday._   
  
"What you see is entirely witch- and wizard-made, Miss Granger, but the house-elves – "   
  
Abby had meant to say that the Hogwarts house-elves did fantastic mending, but the sight of Ron waving his arms frantically behind Hermione sidetracked her. Next to him was Harry, widely mouthing the word "Nooooo".   
  
" – the house-elves at Hogwarts are quite hard-working," she concluded. "Yes, they are."   
  
Ron and Harry groaned.   
  
Hermione nodded in brisk concurrence.   
  
"You're right, Miss Loomis. You're absolutely right. And for that, it's simply not fair – it just IMPOSSIBLY unfair – that they should receive nothing, NOTHING for their – " Her words broke off abruptly. Ron had seized Hermione by the shoulders and was steering her purposefully toward a display of educational hosiery, which seemed to effectively stall the impending tirade. As interesting as the Stonehenge Stockings were, however, Abby did not think they merited the pink-cheeked delight on Hermione Granger's face all on their own.   
  
_How sad that they don't have access to Hufflepuff Turret. They might need it in a year or two._   
  
Abby later saw the three students laughing over the singing Ode-Aroma socks in the novelty section, and though she tried to wade through the crowd and have another word before they left, a mishap with a pair of Glue Gloves kept her occupied. She watched as their three heads, close together in private conversation, moved out of Gladrags and passed down the High Street. She had entirely forgot to ask if Harry might know the whereabouts of her lost dog.   
  
The second to last day of April began very badly for Abby, despite the things in life that currently gave her pleasure. She had already made a good start on the Whisper Weave cloak, to begin with – Taffeta's advice had proved invaluable, and the cloth Abby had woven so far was rich and soft, almost tempting her to keep it for herself. And then thanks to the Triwizard Tournament and its attending crowd, Gladrags' sales had never been higher. The "Golden Needle", a trophy of commendation from the higher management, rested on her mantelpiece. But the fabric of the Invisibility Cloak waited still on the timbers of her finishing frame, still unfinished, still unclaimed. Abby was beginning to look on the cloth as an inescapable black storm cloud that hovered continually overhead, just biding its time until it released a deluge on her.   
  
And even now, she remained her cottage's single occupant.   
  
If there was any pathetic good to be found in the situation, Abby morosely reflected, it was that her encounter with Sirius Black had served to take her mind off William Lowby. While she would always keep her memory of Will dear, she was ready to bid a tender goodbye to her all-consuming tie to him…or so she had thought until that April morning, when she her found herself in a black mood that was impossible to shake.   
  
Remnants of a dream had been hounding her throughout the day. It had been a reoccurring dream, one in which she would sit in Hufflepuff Turret during the late spring, cradled in Will's long arms. Together they would watch evening set over the Forbidden Forest. Then she would turn her head, look into his eyes, and his lips would move toward hers… But in the dream last night, Will's eyes had not been their usual brown. They had been a different, although unsettlingly familiar, colour altogether. And his mouth, though darling, had never pulled up at the corner in that manner…   
  
Abby had woken up flustered and on her way to being very late for work. She had thrown a pillow off the bed in irritation; the pillow then took swift flight and knocked her favorite lamp to the ground, shattering it to pieces. A shard later caught in her shoe, further delaying her. Once at Gladrags, she had discovered that due to a clerical oversight of her making, the shop had only Knuts with which to make their customers' change that day. It had the beginnings of a rotten, evil morning, and things only got worse when Lucius Malfoy swept through Gladrags' front door.   
  
Immaculately groomed from head to well-shined boot, Lucius gazed around the showroom with look of disdain. Gladrags, it would seem, was blessed for his very presence. Abby took a few quick, startled breaths before leaving the front counter and approaching her customer, stumbling over her feet along the way. On any other morning she might have been able to more quickly adapt, but the persistent vision of discordant eyes in Hufflepuff Turret made keeping her wits about her difficult. There was no need to conjure up a case of nerves or feign intimidation, she thought, not today. She felt uneasy enough already. But Lucius Malfoy seemed to expect subservience and awe from those who waited on him, and so her worries might play to her favor.   
  
_He looks as if he expects the very walls to bow before him – if I were to actually fall on my face, he'd take it for a show of admiration._   
  
"Master Malfoy, what a pleasure to see you. How may we be of service today?"   
  
"I require dress robes," Lucius answered shortly, surveying the showroom again. By his tone, he entertained no possible hope of finding anything to his satisfaction in Gladrags.   
  
"Of course, sir. May I ask how soon you will need them?"   
  
Lucius turned his sleek blond head and looked at Abby icily. "I will return for the robes in one hour, Miss Loomis, at which time they will be ready, do you understand?"   
  
Abby bobbed her head quickly. "Yes, of course. We are happy to extend such a service to our valued clientele. We keep our finer fabrics in the back, away from the general public – will you accompany me there, please?"   
  
Abby retreated nervously to the rear of the showroom, acutely aware of Malfoy's footsteps behind her. She would start out small, she silently decided to herself. First she would try to become a trusted resource for Narcissa Malfoy's fineries. Once that relationship was established, she might begin to suggest gentlemen's wares. By that time, the Whisper Weave cloak would be completed. Perhaps Dumbledore knew of other monitoring devices she might also introduce. But now, she need only worry about this initial obstacle…   
  
Lucius stood against the fitting room wall, his arms folded fastidiously across his chest, watching as Abby pulled swatches and bolts of cloth from their cupboards and laid them across a table. She worked hurriedly, not wanting to remain in _Master Malfoy's_ company a second longer than necessary. Swept up in her work, she was in no way prepared for him to actually speak to her:   
  
"Did you attend Hogwarts, Miss Loomis?"   
  
"Yes." Startled at the unexpected question, Abby looked back at Lucius, and then quickly reverted her eyes to the fabric. "I believe I was a few years behind you, sir."   
  
Lucius allowed a discomfiting pause to linger before continuing.   
  
"And to which house did you belong?" His voice was taunting in its coolness.   
  
"Hufflepuff House."   
  
"I see," Lucius replied, his eyebrow lifting up a fraction. "Hufflepuff House. And you joined the Gladrags establishment after leaving school?"   
  
Lucius' questioning was all too obvious. Abby seethed inside, but she left her words quiet and even, shaded with the appropriate traces of awkwardness and shame.   
  
"No, sir. I came to Gladrags after my fifth year," Abby said, not meeting his eye. "Circumstances prevented me from completing school. Now sir, if you would like to select the fabric for your robes...we have several that I hope will meet your standards."   
  
Sifting through the samples offhandedly, Lucius glanced at a few price tags and tossed a swatch of an expensive Italian blend in front of Abby. She noted the smoothness of his hands, as though he did no greater manual labour than pick up an occasional quill.   
  
"Then you must find this work more suited to your abilities, Miss Loomis," Lucius said, with the air of resuming their initial "conversation".   
  
"Yes, sir, it is," she replied meekly, pushing the remaining samples and dreading what came next, especially when she knew she could do this work by other means. "Now if I may take a few measurements, please…"   
  
Abby dropped her measuring tape as she approached Lucius, who had stepped away from the wall when he examined the fabrics. She fumbled as she bent down to pick it up, her hair getting in the way. She had worn it loose that day, in mild rebellion toward her recent birthday. It hung well past her shoulders, with only the sides pulled back in tortoise-shell clips.   
  
"Forgive me, sir," she mumbled, retrieving the tape. "I don't wish to keep you longer than necessary."   
  
_And if you only knew how much I really mean that, Lucius._   
  
The foolishness of her hairstyle became even more obvious when she stooped down to take the measurement of his back seam. Lucius Malfoy and his friends had bothered her back in the days of Hogwarts, and being alone in his presence now was certainly no treat. For the second time, Abby dropped the measuring tape. The light-brown strands slid around her shoulders once more as she bent down, apologizing profusely, and picked it up.   
  
As she rose again, Abby experienced the brief, yet unmistakable feeling of fingers lightly catching her hair – neither a pleasant nor a welcome sensation. Every part of her wanted to jolt upwards, and she fought hard to control the sudden heave in her throat. Through staggering effort, she kept her motions calm and steady. As her eyes climbed upward, she dared a glance at Lucius. An unreadable expression was on his face – one that she was not about to try to decipher – and his hands hung immobile at his sides.   
  
_Oh Merlin, I didn't bargain for this._   
  
"Thank you for waiting. Your robes will be ready shortly." Abby took a deep breath. Luckily, her position hid her unintentional shiver from his view. "Sir, if I may be so bold, might I offer to arrange a private showing of our latest merchandise for Mistress Malfoy? We have some exquisite things arriving soon – "   
  
"I have been told as much," Lucius interrupted curtly. He turned to look Abby full in the eye, as though to toy with her unease. "Do you believe my son incapable of relaying a simple message, Miss Loomis?"   
  
Abby hung her head, her cheeks burning. "Of course not, sir. Please forgive me. However, if your wife would like me to bring the items to the Malfoy manor, I would be happy to comply."   
  
"Now, why would you be so eager to do that, Miss Loomis?" he asked with a soft sneer.   
  
Abby twisted the measuring tape back into a tight roll before meeting Lucius' gaze. Her voice shook slightly, part of both her pretense and her revulsion. Whether it had been inadvertent or not, she had sensed _something_ in her hair…   
  
"I know Hogsmeade is a small town, with little to hold your interest. As I am sure you understand, the Malfoy family's patronage means a great deal to our shop."   
  
Her answer seemed to satisfy him. Without a direct answer, Lucius appraised Abby once more, then turned to leave. "I will return in an hour," he tossed over his shoulder as he exited the room.   
  
Abby made the robes as quickly as possible after Lucius left, muttering hexes with each slice of the cloth, then retreated to her office to sink her head into her hands. Feeling her hair tumbling over her shoulders once more, she twisted the mane angrily into a messy knot and speared it with a spare quill. It might look ridiculous, but it would serve the purpose. She hit the surface of her desk in disgust.   
  
_Please, please let that have been an accident._   
  
Claiming a headache, Abby left Lucius Malfoy's robes with Chanella at the front counter and spent the remainder of the day in a series of irate exchanges with Gringotts goblins regarding the Knut situation. The problem was not fully rectified until well after shop hours, and Abby groaned as she looked at her watch. With the events of the day, she had completely forgotten about her scheduled meeting with Dumbledore that night. Although it would be more convenient to leave directly from Gladrags, she was going to Hogwarts without stopping by her cottage first.   
  
Dusk was falling over Hogsmeade as Abby scurried down her lane, hoping that Hubert the owl had already reach Dumbledore with her apology.   
  
"I'm not going anywhere without washing out the Lucius first," she muttered at the front door as she yanked the quill from her hair, oblivious to the large black shadow in the space between her home and the Boormans'.   
  
The feeling of lateness chafed at Abby as she raced towards Hogwarts in the dark, almost two hours behind schedule. With any other appointment, she would have tried to reschedule once she had known there was no chance of being punctual. But as she did not know when the next opportunity to see Dumbledore would arise, she would have to simply swallow her pride and scurry faster.   
  
With that morning's dream still lingering in her memory, Abby squinted in the dark as the castle grew nearer. Yes, there it was – Hufflepuff Turret. Not the tallest of the towers, and certainly not the grandest, but beloved all the same. Abby could never have imagined, back when the sight of Will Lowby in a Quidditch uniform and the fortuitous nature of alphabetical seating charts were forefront in her mind, that her life would end up like this. Pausing on the grass, breathless from the run, she touched a hand to her lips and raised it in farewell before resuming her course to Hogwarts' great front doors.   
  
The halls were mostly empty as she made her way to Professor Dumbledore's office, most of the students having retreated to their common rooms by this hour. "Mallow Mice," Abby wheezed as she reached the familiar gargoyle, clutching a stitch in her side. Despite her anxiety, she smiled. Creamy white centers, chocolate coatings… Mallow Mice were actually quite tasty, and she deemed them a much better choice for a password than their unappealing predecessors.   
  
The gargoyle stepped aside, and a voice beckoned Abby into the office before she even reached the top of the spiral staircase. The headmaster was sitting at his desk, sipping a cup of cocoa and – she cocked her head curiously to see – sorting Chocolate Frog cards. A smile broke across his face when he saw her.   
  
"Abigail! I thank you for coming, as always. Please be seated, and tell me all about France. How was your trip?"   
  
"Oh, it was wonderful. Truthfully, I hated to leave." Abby sank gratefully into the comfortable chair across from Dumbledore and accepted the cup of cocoa he handed to her. "I apologize for being late, sir. It's been a dreadful day." Though she was heated from her run, the night was chilly, and her hair, though now plaited and pinned up, was still damp from its recent washing.   
  
"Please, do not worry, dear – I received your owl," Dumbledore said, holding his long beard aside as he refilled his cup. "Taffeta said she had a lovely time with you. I was quite pleased to receive her letter, as I do believe she has finally forgiven me for cutting parchment snowflakes with her best pair of sewing shears."   
  
"Sir, you _didn't_," Abby gasped, grinning.   
  
Dumbledore nodded gravely. "I did, and I advise you to never anger a spirited French witch. I have learned that on many an occasion." He took a sip of his cocoa, smiling at her over the rim.   
  
"I understand that you have come up with a name for your latest endeavor?" the headmaster asked after a pause. Abby nodded her head, still catching her breath.   
  
"I have," she replied. "I'm going to call it 'Whisper Weave'." She stopped, blushing at his broad smile of approval. "Sir, did you give any thougth to how the cloak might be verified? I don't know much about the workings of our courts, but if this cloak is ever used in a trial, I would hate for it to be discredited."   
  
Abby shuddered suddenly, considering for the first time an even worse possibility.   
  
"Headmaster, do you think the Dark Arts would be able to detect the cloak's purpose? Could they sense the magic in the cloak? I didn't even think about that… Should someone look it over? Alastor Moody, perhaps? I haven't had the chance to see him all year. How is he?"   
  
"Alastor is happily terrifying students," Dumbledore replied with a twinkling eye, "but I hate to bother him now. He has been quite generous already in helping to prepare the Third Task of the Triwizard Tournament. I have another man in mind – Errol Klarion. Do you know him?"   
  
_Errol Klarion?_ Abby tossed the name over in her mind, envisioning the dark-haired, solemn-faced boy who had come to her rescue on a long-ago school day. Yes, she did know Errol Klarion.   
  
_Oh, why couldn't he have come to Gladrags today and lobbed a few good curses at Lucius Malfoy for me?_   
  
"If memory serves, Errol and I have met. Is he…_familiar_ with the Dark Arts, sir?"   
  
"His family situation has made that knowledge a necessity," Dumbledore answered with a look of frankness, "although I trust Errol implicitly. When the Whisper Weave is completed, I will call upon him for assistance."   
  
Abby nodded. _Very well._ "When you do see him, please let him know there is a pair of free robes waiting for him at Gladrags. I believe I owe Errol a favor."   
  
She set her cup down and sank back into her chair. Though that worry was resolved, she remained rather annoyed with herself for the oversight – she had believed everything to be so well thought-out. As she stewed over the myriad other ways in which the plan could go wrong, the happenings of the day began to join together into a giant ball of frustration. The dream…the lamp…the unwanted touch… The ball quickly gained momentum, prodded along by Dumbledore's next question.   
  
"And how are things in the rest of your life, Abigail?" he inquired gently.   
  
Abby felt her tiredness, physical and otherwise, in every inch of her. The lateness of the hour hung heavily on her mind, and while she knew her next words were better left unsaid, but she could not stop them from coming.   
  
"Well, my only family lives in another country, the village thinks I'm a flighty twit, and Lucius Malfoy sickens me," she muttered, avoiding Dumbledore's eye. "Even my dog ran away," she added with a final, bitter laugh. She drained the remainder of her cup, a measure that proved providential, as she almost dropped it to the floor when Dumbledore spoke next.   
  
"You must miss him, Abigail," he said softly. "And if I am not mistaken, he misses you, too."   
  
Abby stared across the desk quizzically. It was almost as if he… She gave her head a slight shake. Dumbledore was renowned for many things, but she had never known him to telepathically communicate with animals. Unless… She started, lurching upward from her chair, her mouth half-open in a question she did not dare ask.   
  
Dumbledore met her searching gaze squarely. He extended an open hand, bidding her to be seated again. But as confusion yielded to comprehension, Abby's eyes stormed over with a greenish-blue fire.   
  
_He knew. He's always known._   
  
"Please understand that it was not the time, Abigail," he continued. "It was not the time."   
  
Abby looked stonily at the headmaster's outstretched hand, then back at his face. Her eyes began to sting, and her jaw clenched. Without another word, she turned her back on Albus Dumbledore and walked from the room. Tears caught up with her before she could escape the school. Her vision blurred, she barely noticed the small crowd of exiting students that she pushed through as she ran past the library. She wanted only to go home, even though there was little chance that she would feel better there.   
  
_He knew, and I've just been a puppet._   
  
The journey back to Hogsmeade passed in a blur. As she entered the village, the clacking sign of The Three Broomsticks, swinging in the night wind, caught her attention. On impulse, Abby veered from the path to her cottage and ran to the side of the pub. Her feet clicked hurriedly up the wooden staircase to Rosmerta's flat, where she rapped on the door with shaking hands. After a moment, a startled Rosmerta cracked open the door, pulling on her wrapper. Her dark curls were down around her shoulders.   
  
"Abby!" she gasped the sight of her winded, tear-stained friend. "Are you all right, love? Are you hurt?"   
  
Abby held up a hand to stop her. "I'm fine, Rosmerta, I'm fine. I'm just – it's just that – that I – " A loud hiccough and an even louder wail ended her sentence.   
  
"Oh, Abby…" Rosmerta murmured, opening the door completely and putting her arms around her. After a few good sobs, Abby lifted her streaked face off Rosmerta's shoulder.   
  
"Do you ever want to just bag it all and run off with a Muggle?" she laughed tearfully.   
  
"More times than I can count, dearest," Rosmerta replied as she pulled Abby inside. "More times than I can count."   
  
_A/N: Errol Klarion belongs to **Catherine**. You can read about the incident Abby mentions in her meeting with Dumbledore in Catherine's work, "The Substance of Shadows". Hogwarts-age Abby makes an appearance or two in that terrifically entertaining story._


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7**   
  
Abby sat glumly in her back garden, trying her best to conjure up a believable excuse for moving to France. Perhaps Gladrags' head offices would transfer her there, if she threatened to leave the organization otherwise. Or perhaps she should just pack up her cottage and go. She doubted she would be missed in Hogsmeade, other than by Rosmerta. Unfortunately, she could not lock up her obligations as a Weaver, bury them in a box, and be on her way. Those burdens would be only too happy to pick up anchor and move with her.   
  
A sheet of thick parchment with the broken seal of an ornate letter "M" rested in her left hand. She looked at it from time to time and twisted the letter's edges uneasily. Bloody Malfoys. Now she would actually have to go to their manor. Abby knew she did well at "keeping up appearances" in Gladrags, her own familiar territory, and even though she had planned for this day, she still had no great desire to extend her play-acting to the abodes of alleged Dark wizards.   
  
_What in Agrippa's name made Dumbledore think I could be or would even want to be a spy?_   
  
Reaching to her right, Abby lifted up a goblet of pumpkin juice and brought it to her lips. A late spring rain pelted down overhead, and although Dumbledore's spells stopped it before it reached the garden, it only worsened her current mood. It had not been raining when she left for work that morning, and so she had chosen to wear the beautiful red satin boots that her father had bought her at Chaussure de Sorciére. However, now that the Department of Magical Transportation, the weather, and even Albus Dumbledore were conspiring against her, the boots had been ruined, soaked through in her race to get home. Of course, the boots did pinch, and a painful blister had been forming on her little toe, but they were ruined all the same, and Abby desperately wanted to hold someone liable.   
  
_Perhaps I'll send a reimbursement claim to Dumbledore. He's the one who asked me to do this, after all, and I really did like those boots._   
  
Abby still did not know the nature of Dumbledore's connection to Sirius Black; she only knew she had placed unwavering faith in the headmaster since she had been fifteen years old. Now, she felt like a stooge. While she had not yet burned down her looms in a mutinous fire, she had begun to question everything he had ever told her, every request he had ever made.   
  
A sound at the gate startled Abby from her thoughts, and her hand gripped around her pumpkin juice. She had not had company in the back garden for quite some time – in fact, her only recent company had been Snuffles, but he wouldn't –   
  
Her hand clenched the goblet even tighter as a filthy, bedraggled figure pushed the cast iron gate aside and came slowly into view. Abby had forgot that out of past consideration for Snuffles, she had left the gate unlocked for the past several months. She stared numbly at the figure that stood dripping with rain before her, but then her eyes narrowed and she gave a hard, incredulous laugh.   
  
_So this is all that needs to happen for him to come around – dealings with the Malfoys, foul weather, and an even fouler temper._   
  
"Hullo, Sirius," she said bitingly, her mouth a tight line. "Did your hippogriff toss you out in the rain? Not very kind of him, was it?"   
  
He looked horrible – thin, dirty, and obviously famished. Abby easily recognized his robes, the foul rags from Azkaban that she had urged him earlier to burn. Covered with mud, forest debris, and other unidentifiable muck, they clung to his bony frame. Though she was far from being in a forgiving mood, Abby winced at the sight of him.   
  
_Where has he been? Oh, Sirius –_   
  
Sirius had yet to say a word. He stared back at Abby, breathing deeply, but she could not read his face. She kept her gaze on him for a few more moments, becoming increasingly annoyed when he remained silent. Had he no explanation? No apology? Did she mean enough to him to even deserve one?   
  
"I haven't any raisins on me," she said at length. "You needn't fear for your safety."   
  
She thought a trace of a smile flickered across his mouth, but his face soon returned to its grim state.   
  
"Abby – " he croaked, his voice sounding parched and raw. Trying to keep herself from relenting and feeling any compassion for him, Abby continued on –   
  
"You could have at least left a note. That's what decent folk do. And if you can't treat your robes any better, you're not getting any new ones."   
  
"Abby, these aren't the robes – "   
  
"Oh, hush," she snapped petulantly. "I know that."   
  
She stared at him for a long moment, ignoring the sting of tears as she slowly lowered her goblet. She needed these few seconds to decide if she was going to curse Sirius Black out of the garden or stalk off in a blazing fury. Sadly, as her eyes were elsewhere, she misgauged the distance to the bench. The base of the goblet caught the edge of her leg, and as she turned to right it with her other hand –   
  
_"BLAST!!!"_   
  
Abby looked up sharply, her eyes livid. A noise had come from Sirius at her shriek, and he looked now as though he was struggling greatly to control his expression.   
  
"Don't even start – " she fumed, as a pool of cold liquid spread out and covered her lap. "Don't you even dare – "   
  
Sirius looked on as Abby began to wring out a gobletful of pumpkin juice from her skirts. "Abby, I _had_ to leave – " he began at one point.   
  
"Well, bully for you!" Abby shot back, feeling like a fool. She continued to angrily mop up the mess, wishing futilely that a dragon or some other such fearsome creature might swoop in and carry Sirius off, so that she might not have to look at him again. Regrettably, there was a significant absence of Hungarian Horntails in the neighborhood. Cheeks burning, she carried on, furious that she could not even manage to be properly indignant without botching things up. Finally, Abby dropped her hands back in her lap and looked up at Sirius with pained eyes. The words raced out of her mouth –   
  
"Sirius, I didn't tell Dumbledore any– "   
  
"Hush," he interrupted in a soft rasp, "I know that."   
  
Abby let out her breath, and the tears that had been threatening to escape now fell. She rose to her feet and walked toward Sirius, pausing a few feet from him. Part of her wanted to hit him in the arm as hard as she could, but it warred against a greater part of her that wanted to take him by that same arm and lead him inside. Still hurt, Abby decided that either way, she had no desire to touch whatever it was that dirtied his sleeves. She softened her gaze and let out a weary sigh.   
  
"Come in, come in."   
  
The next nine days passed in curious living arrangements. Abby's suppressed anger was the only thing that kept her from giving in completely to her worries for his well-being. Sirius looked as though he had escaped from Azkaban a second time – the skin of his face was stretched morbidly tight, and the neckline of his robes gaped to reveal protruding collarbones. She thought of altering them while he slept, but she could not bring herself to do so; that would seem to both acknowledge his condition and accept that he might stay that way.   
  
Abby did not let Padfoot in until late each night, and when she did, Sirius wisely gave her a wide berth. Having eaten beforehand by herself, she would prepare a plate for Sirius, and then retire to her room, where she would lie on her bed and shoot Unforgivable Glares at the closed door. Still, she did notice the small gestures of reparation he began to make. It had been a nice surprise to find all of the dustbins cleaned and emptied one evening, even though he had made a mess of the floor while doing it. He even began wiping off the table after himself, she noted wryly. She just wished she knew what was troubling him. She had her suspicions, now that she knew he was godfather to Harry Potter (worry enough for anyone, and doubly so for wanted felons), but she did not know why he pored over the _Daily Prophet_ with increased intensity or why he wrote so many confounded owls. Early in his stay, he had meekly asked if he might use her parchment and ink. Abby had pointed to her writing kit and silently nodded.   
  
Though he was again wearing the clothes Abby had made for him, as before, Sirius had wanted to keep his Azkaban robes. Abby had been tempted to incinerate them without his input, but she had provided soap and a bucket and watched, surreptitious and pensive, as he washed out the tatters.   
  
On this visit, however, his appetite seemed to have been left behind in the Forbidden Forest. It seemed as though some great, gnawing worry had left him unable to bother with trivial matters like eating. But even though she prepared several of his old favourites – anything that might tempt his appetite – Abby steadfastly refused to bake ginger biscuits for him. He never asked for them, but it was her final, pathetic stronghold of wounded feelings.   
  
_Since he likes leaving so much, he can prance down to the grocer's and buy some himself._   
  
Despite her concern over his haggard state and lack of hunger, Abby could not bring herself to talk to Sirius just yet. Still, she felt her anger ebbing away with each passing day – it was difficult to stay upset with Sirius when he seemed so entirely capable of being miserable all on his own. Though she felt frustrated to no end, she did not want him to go again. He did not give any particular indication of wanting to leave, but Abby reminded herself that this had not stopped him before. It was not until she made an unexpected midday visit to the cottage and found Sirius mired in an ill-fated baking attempt of his own that she finally yielded…   
  
"Sirius Black – you sad, sad man," Abby laughed in surprise, viewing his flour-covered state. "What in the name of all that's magical are you doing?"   
  
Sirius sheepishly set his mixing bowl and wooden spoon down on the table. "Well, you haven't made any of those ginger biscuits lately – _intentionally_, I'm sure – so I thought I'd have a go myself. I don't think I'm suited for this, though." He moved aside to show Abby the full scope of his workings and wreckage in the kitchen.   
  
"Guilty as charged," she admitted, before cringing slightly.   
  
_Er, he probably doesn't care much for that phrase._   
  
"I was wondering if you'd notice the biscuits," she continued lightly. "I gather you've missed them?"   
  
"I have," Sirius said softly, catching her eye for a moment, before Abby clumsily broke off the connection.   
  
"If you'll clean that up, I'll make you a proper batch tonight," she said, gathering up the robe designs she had come to retrieve. "And one of these days, I'm going to make you replenish both my baking goods _and_ my stationary supplies."   
  
Sirius smiled skeptically as she faced him again. "It might be a while before I'm able to do that."   
  
"Trust me," she said. "I'm good at waiting."   
  
A small sigh escaped Abby – the sofa was so comfortable and the cottage so pleasantly warm, she dearly wanted to forget that darkness, evil, and Malfoys were all too present outside the walls. It was nice to be on speaking terms with Sirius again, even though she knew they could never reclaim the level of deliberate simplicity their friendship _(Can I even call it that?)_ had once had. Things had changed since Snuffles had last run away. She had changed, for that matter.   
  
Although Sirius knew nothing of the weaving Abby continued to do, despite her rift with Dumbledore, or of her impending visit to Malfoy Manor, she found his presence reassuring as they sat silently in the lamp-lit room. A plate of ginger biscuits rested between them, from which she noticed Sirius taking more than his fair share. Smiling to herself, she watched him reach out for another one. Against her own better judgment, she had found herself becoming rather attached to that presence in the weeks leading up to this June evening.   
  
_"Too attached" might be a more apt phrase. Oh, stop it, stop it – you know he'll only leave again._   
  
Sirius was perusing the _Daily Prophet_ as did each evening, scanning the rustling pages intensely for items of interest. Abby noted the page numbers, briefly considering the idea of taking the paper later to figure out which stories seized his attention so. She smirked as he began to mutter inaudible profanities (which she heard anyway) toward Cornelius Fudge, the Ministry, and others.   
  
_Great Galleons, I wouldn't want to be on his bad side when he gets a wand again._   
  
Between looks at the book on her lap, _The Needle and I: A Housewitch's Guide to Simple Stitch Spells_, Abby chanced glances to her left, taking in the shadows and highlights the light cast on the angles of his face. Though his frame was still much too lean and his face gaunt, he did look better than when he had arrived.   
  
_If only I could say that about his hair…_   
  
For a moment, she entertained herself by trying to suppose exactly what he might have used to cut it. A sharp rock? A discarded hippogriff talon? She stifled the giggle as she appraised the jagged edges.   
  
_I gave Snuffles a better trim than that._   
  
She started slightly at the sound of his voice, fervently hoping he had not noticed her observations. Sirius had set his newspaper aside and was pointing at the book on her lap.   
  
"Why are you reading that?" he asked. "Shouldn't you already know everything in there?"   
  
Abby shifted on her cushion and smiled toward his end of the sofa.   
  
"I'm sure _that_ was praise of the sincerest sort." She held up the book for him to see the title. "It's just an old favorite."   
  
By the look on his face, Sirius was not satisfied by her answer. He continued to look at Abby as though he expected some further explanation. Rather unsettled by the feeling that his questions might come from more than simple curiosity, she prattled off the first sarcastic comment that came to mind.   
  
"I'm preparing for the time when I can retire from Gladrags and live as a simple housewitch – I'm sure I'll have to take in a bit of sewing to make ends meet."   
  
_That, and these spells could possibly form the basis of deeper cloth-based enchantments, capable of fighting Dark magic. But of course, I can't let you know that._   
  
She looked down at her book again, stroking its faded edges. It had belonged to her mother. Her first lessons had been from that book, actually. While an eight year-old Abby had thought of the Stitch Spells as a dreadful and boring chore, she now considered the tattered volume a dear friend. As she ran her fingers down the book's spine, she became suddenly aware that Sirius had not offered a retort to her glib answer. She turned back to him, another smile on her face, but was halted by his stare. Her stomach twisted inside her.   
  
"Sirius…" she laughed awkwardly, "Sirius, why are you looking at me like that? I was just being silly. The book was my Mum's, and I like to look at it from time to time."   
  
He did not bother to answer, but continued to stare until Abby, unable to fathom or handle his eyes, shifted her own gaze and concentrated instead on the book's cover. Her heart began to thump alarmingly. She had never really bothered appear dim-witted around Sirius; to do so would be ridiculous, after all that Snuffles had heard and seen. She had just assumed that he was too caught up in his own predicaments to ever call her on it. But now he looked to be in no mood to deal with half-truths and offhand explanations, and Abby found herself wanting badly to unburden her mind of the worries that had consumed her last eighteen years…   
  
How she, the last remaining Weaver in Britain _(and a self-taught one, at that)_ did not know how to complete her Invisibility Cloak. How she became increasingly nervous at the implications of each encounter with Lucius Malfoy, uncertain of her abilities and how long she could maintain her ruse before him. How Albus Dumbledore did not think her capable of making her own decisions in life. How knowing _him_, Sirius Black, only complicated these already thorny matters.   
  
Finally, he spoke. Although his voice remained calm, she sensed a note of harshness underneath.   
  
"Hogsmeade may be convinced that you're perfectly content to sew robes, but I have difficulty believing that a witch with your mind could not pass her O.W.L.s."   
  
Abby's eyes widened, and her breath caught. What could she say to that? Her Hufflepuff nature never liked to lie _(only when dealing with horrible customers and evil overlords makes it necessary)_, even though so much of her life was already a charade. She pursed her lips tightly. She wanted so desperately to tell him. She wanted to yell, scream, rant, and cry, which would have probably scare him the most, considering their last encounter with her tears. Her mouth opened slightly, but no words came. Abby shook her head, her eyes pleading with his to please, please not ask any more questions.   
  
Two things came together to tear her from the vicious internal struggle. The first was a brief snippet from an earlier conversation with Dumbledore – the one in which she had told him of her new "pet", in fact. It was the same remark she had remembered on the winter night when a shower of angry words and raisins had caused Sirius Black to reveal himself from his Animagus disguise. Knowing what she did now, Dumbledore's words had an entirely new meaning –   
  
_"…I once knew a dog of such a breed. Quite loyal, he was. Yes, very loyal indeed…"_   
  
The second was the sight of Sirius Black setting the plate of biscuits aside and moving next to her. Gulping a deep, uncertain breath, Abby looked up and met his searching eyes once more. Years of secrecy and their resultant effects were too ingrained to be quickly or easily discarded. Although he, of all people, probably understood that, she thought. Still, she made one last halfhearted attempt to evade him.   
  
"I got hit on the head, Sirius," she said, with a toss of her hair. "It _hurt_. _You_ might not be very familiar with the Whomping Willow, but let me tell you, it packs quite a wallop."   
  
Sirius snorted derisively.   
  
_Well, he and his mates did have all sorts of escapades – maybe he has come in contact with the Willow. That could account for some things._   
  
"I don't believe you," he stated flatly.   
  
Abby began to tap her foot restlessly. Avoiding his eye was becoming increasingly difficult in such close proximity. Abruptly, she rose and went to the kitchen.   
  
"You can believe whatever you like," she muttered, filling up the teakettle with agitated hands. Over her shoulder, she saw that Sirius had turned to face her over the back of the sofa.   
  
"And what exactly is going on between you and Lucius Malfoy?" Sirius now demanded. He did not bother hiding the edge in his voice.   
  
Abby whirled around, sputtering. "Wha – ? How – how do you – ?" With great effort, she tamed her expression. "Lucius Malfoy is a customer just like any other. Well," she said with a shrug of her shoulders, "except that he spends about fifty Galleons more per visit than most customers."   
  
"And do you _encourage_ him to spend more?"   
  
Abby froze. "How dare you," she bristled, setting the teakettle on the hob before she was inclined any further to throw it in his direction.   
  
"How dare you," Abby continued, clenching her hands, her voice a low hiss. "I've told you what my job is like. I've told you how some of the men who come to Gladrags treat us – as though we're there to cater to any _other_ need they might have. They think it's good sport to toy with us, to see how much they can get away with before we toss professionalism aside and throw them out of the shop. How _dare_ you even insinuate that I would encourage such a thing." She stormed to a nearby cupboard and began to rummage for a teabag. She paused at Sirius' next words, which came much more softly.   
  
"But you told me that some gits are more subtle than others, don't you remember? You don't always know what their intentions are, and so sometimes they get away with more than you'd like? He touched you, didn't he?"   
  
"No, I don't always know," she replied acidly, "But believe me, Lucius Malfoy is the only git whose eye I'm trying to catch. I have my reasons for that. And now, I think I've had enough of your company for the evening." She turned on her heel and began walking toward her bedroom. She did not get far before Sirius rose from the couch, crossed the room in a few long strides, and grabbed her arm.   
  
"Abby, why?"   
  
"Why, what?" she asked defiantly.   
  
"Why Lucius? He's dangerous – you don't know what you're getting into."   
  
"I can't tell you. Now let me go!"   
  
"Why not?"   
  
"I can't! And how do you know about that in the first place?"   
  
"You don't know what you're playing at. Lucius Malfoy is trouble."   
  
"Oh, and how do you know that?"   
  
"Lucius is _family_," Sirius said, his mouth twisting into an ugly sneer.   
  
Confused, and even more incensed, Abby wrenched her arm away and paced over to her workbench, where she began to lump her sewing supplies into haphazard, messy piles. She could feel the heat rising in her face. If Sirius Black was going to be so bloody persistent, she might as well demand a fair trade.   
  
_"Fine,"_ she said at length. "Fine. But first let me ask you this – what were you doing in the Boormans' house last November, in the middle of the night?"   
  
Taking a swift glance behind her, Abby saw that Sirius seemed to be taking a turn at being confused, his brow furrowed.   
  
"Did a few raisins to the head modify your memory?" she went on. "I came home from work very late, and I saw you – or _Snuffles_ – sneak out the door. The Boormans were off drinking, I think. The house was empty."   
  
She thought she saw a look of understanding cross his face, but before she had time to think on it further, Sirius met her at the workbench. Abby quickly turned her back to him and resumed her "organization", heedless to the fact that needles, swatches, and bobbins were falling off the table in every direction.   
  
"I'd first like to know exactly what it is you spend hours doing in here each night," he demanded.   
  
"Haven't you been listening to my wonderful neighbours?" Abby replied, still not facing him. "I'm growing Class A Non-Tradable plants." Her voice became even more strident. "Why did you never tell me that you're in contact with Albus Dumbledore?"   
  
Sirius gave a hard laugh. "You might do well to answer that one yourself."   
  
"I've told you," Abby retorted. "I'm his seamstress. And on that note, why did you leave your robes here? I can't tell you how _gratifying_ it was to discover that you prefer Azkaban's handiwork to mine." She could not keep her voice from shaking. Sirius remained silent.   
  
"And tell me, who are you writing all those owls to? Keeping in touch with Buckbeak, are we?" She raged on, despite the irksome feeling that they might both be better off if the conversation were to end now. "Why are hanging around Hogsmeade? I hardly need tell you the danger in that. And why did you come back to my cottage? Why – " she whirled around, jumping when she saw that he was standing much more closely than she had realized. The look on his face made her want to cower and run, but she held her ground. Barely.   
  
"Why do you trust me?" she whispered, a feeling of wretchedness sweeping over her anger. Abby regretted the words before they had even left her mouth. Her home was probably no more than a ready source of food and shelter to him.   
  
Sirius again disregarded her questions. He kept his eyes trained on Abby's, as much as she tried to dodge them. "Why did you leave Hogwarts after your fifth year?" he asked, quietly and evenly. After what felt like an excruciating silence, Abby was stunned to hear herself speak.   
  
"My marks did not merit further education at Hogwarts." She took a deep breath. If she did not tell him now, she might never find the nerve again. Moreover, she did not know how she would placate him otherwise – she knew by now that Sirius Black was very single-minded in his pursuits. But in truth, she did want him to know. Her fear would not allow her to say all she wanted, in just the that way she would like, and so she could only hope that he would understand her meaning.   
  
"Albus Dumbledore was kind enough to arrange an apprenticeship at Gladrags, where he thought I might be able to develop other abilities," she said, measuring the words carefully. "He has remained a friend and adviser, and I try to help him in any way I can." Her heart seemed to stop with the final words. Sirius did not speak for the longest time, causing Abby to finally throw her hands up in exasperation.   
  
"Oh, bother – this is all much more trouble than it's worth. Come here, you." Abby grabbed Sirius by the hand and dragged him away from the workbench, around the sofa, and onto the hearthrug in front of the fireplace. She pulled her wand from her robes.   
  
_"Dissen –_ what?" she asked. Sirius was looking at her oddly. He shook his head.   
  
"I'm sorry. Go on."   
  
_"Dissendium."_ Abby completed the spell, and the rug lowered slowly, slowly, sinking through the floor and down into a room that no one other than she, Albus Dumbledore, and Hollister Loomis had ever seen before.   
  
Sirius' eyes grew wide as he looked around the expansive weaving room, taking in the enchanted stars sparkling in the windows, the enormous looms, the piles of herbs and potions ingredients, and the finishing frame, across which was stretched the gleaming silver Demiguise fabric. He looked at Abby sharply, his voice stunned and disbelieving.   
  
"But, that – that looks like – it can't be – _is it?_"   
  
Abby nodded calmly. "It's the cloth of an Invisibility Cloak."   
  
"But then – that would make you – "   
  
"A Weaver," she finished for him.   
  
Despite her trepidation, Abby could not help smiling as Sirius stared in amazement at her weaving tools. It was not often that she had the chance to shock _him_, she thought, her eyes crinkling.   
  
"This room alone is larger than your entire cottage!" he exclaimed. "How did you do it?"   
  
Abby smiled again. "It's of Dumbledore's making. It's nice isn't it? It would probably increase the property value of the place tremendously, were it known, but alas, it has to remain a secret."   
  
Sirius blinked his eyes and shook his head slightly as he looked around the room once more, finally shifting his gaze back to Abby.   
  
"Not many witches would take a convicted killer into their homes," he said slowly, "much less show him a room like this."   
  
_Or let him sleep on their beds, or bake him biscuits, or furnish his wardrobe, or do any number of things…_   
  
Abby stared her shoes for a moment, wondering how she might even begin to explain herself. When she looked back at Sirius, she flinched to see the deadened look of Azkaban starting to take over his face. They had never really discussed the crime for which he had spent over a decade in prison. A small flicker of remaining light in his eyes gave her the confidence to continue.   
  
"I never wanted to believe that you did it," she murmured. "Never. Things aren't always as they seem."   
  
With a bitter laugh, the flicker extinguished. "Well," Sirius said, "the rest of the wizarding world was not so inclined."   
  
He stared forward without expression, and Abby suddenly realized that his hand was still in hers from when they had descended into the room. She felt terribly self-conscious, but now did not seem to be the time to let go. She continued to hold his hand, and in time, the emptiness in his gaze receded and he began to take in the curiosities of the room once more. He turned to Abby, the question of how and why a Hogsmeade seamstress believed in his innocence clearly on his lips.   
  
"I can detect Invisibility Cloaks," Abby answered simply, before he could speak.   
  
At first, Sirius stared at her blankly. But as her statement and its significance began to sink in, astonishment crept over his face.   
  
"What? You can see through them? How is that possible?"   
  
Abby waved her hand impatiently. It was taking a Herculean effort for her to say these things, and he was interrupting her train of thought. If she did not finish now, she might never manage.   
  
"No, you idiot – I don't see _through_ them, I _detect_ them." She could not help breaking into a grin. "What, did you read Muggle comic books as a child?"   
  
"But how?"   
  
"I don't know, exactly," she answered, flushing as she looked down at their linked hands. She let go to gesture at the sofa. "Er, would you like to sit down? This might take a while."   
  
Sirius followed as Abby walked over to the sofa and sank into its cushioned depths.   
  
"This is comfortable," he said vaguely.   
  
Abby was reminded of the mutual awkwardness of their first human-to-human meeting. "Thank you. I have a flair for Cushioning Charms." A lengthy pause ensued.   
  
"I see the patterns in the air, the way the light moves," she finally began. "I don't know if it comes from the magical gift, or if it's just because I know what to look for. My mum and grandmother were Weavers themselves, so I grew up seeing how the cloaks were made. In fact, my grandmother made the cloak James Potter had." She reached down around her ankles and pulled her feet up underneath her. "I used to watch you at Hogwarts, you know," she added softly.   
  
"Hmm?" Sirius had been staring around the room, but his eyes opened in boyish surprise as her statement registered. A corner of his mouth lifted up rakishly. "Me, really? You watched _me_?"   
  
"Oh, don't be too chuffed," Abby laughed, swatting him lightly on the arm. "I watched _all_ of you – you, James, Peter Pettigrew, Remus Lupin. But I will grant that you were the most delinquent of the lot, and thus the most interesting. My grandmother would box you all about the ears if she knew of the things you got up to, and I'm sure I only saw the smallest fraction of it. I even got caught watching once or twice."   
  
"Really? Who caught you?"   
  
"Some nasty older Slytherins. I was only a second year, I think. They wouldn't leave me alone, until Errol Klarion – did you ever know him? – came along. He walked up, as calm as if he were out for a Sunday stroll, and nailed them with some brilliant curses."   
  
"Wait – that was because of you?" His eyes narrowed in concentration. "I remember that – we couldn't stay away from a chance to scrap with their foul group. It made for a fairly good brawl." He was quiet for a moment. "Errol's done me a few favours, too."   
  
"I learned to be more discreet after that," Abby said slowly, curious as to Sirius' last remark. "I can't say that _your_ lot did, though. How James managed to pull all those pranks and still become Head Boy, I never knew."   
  
Sirius snorted. "Neither did we. We never let him alone about that. So, things must have been pretty dull after we left school, eh?" he grinned.   
  
Abby pulled a face in reply. "No, I had much _better_ things with which to occupy my time in fifth year." She leaned back into the sofa as their voices fell into a lull, letting the long-ago memories of Hogwarts schooldays pass before her eyes. After a few minutes, she broke into a girlish giggle.   
  
"Do you remember the Yule Ball that was held your seventh year, my fourth?" Abby asked. "When The Billywigs performed?"   
  
"You were there?"   
  
"Yes, with Gil Barlow. He left me halfway through to 'enhance' the punch, and he never returned. He's now a permanent fixture at The Three Broomsticks. Rosmerta's thinking of having him bronzed."   
  
Sirius broke out into the first genuine, uninhibited laughter she had heard from him in a long time. "Oh, no – that wasn't the one when we – when we – " Sirius slapped his knee, unable to continue.   
  
Abby nodded her head in amusement, taking a moment to note the remarkable, rather attractive change that happiness made in Sirius' usually haggard face. He needed to laugh more often, she decided, before turning her thoughts back to that particular Yule Ball.   
  
The aftermath of that exploit had been sufficient enough to make its memory quite vivid. While Abby (who had quickly become disillusioned with the idea of Yule Balls) had stared in boredom over the shoulder of her inattentive date, someone in the Invisibility Cloak, presumably Remus, had threaded his way through the dancing couples and "rearranged" a few hands. As the throng of students had swayed to the melodic sounds of The Billywigs and their lead vocalist crooning "Every Little Thing She Does is Magic," the Great Hall had resonated with the sounds of shrieks, shouts, and slaps. One glance at the cackling forms of Sirius Black and Peter Pettigrew on the sidelines had told her who was responsible…   
  
"Don't look at me like that – it could have been much, much worse," Sirius was saying, shaking with mirth. "We mostly singled out the boys, except for – except for – "   
  
"Except for Lily Evans! That was horrible, just horrible!" Abby cried out. "Lily looked just _mortified_. That was Remus Lupin out there, wasn't it? He always seemed so quiet and well-bred. I'm sure the incident was all due to your corrupting influence."   
  
Sirius calmed down himself, though his breath still came in heavy bursts. He winked at Abby. "Believe it or not, that was actually Remus' idea. You'd be surprised at the things that came from that chap."   
  
"Did you know that he taught at Hogwarts last year?" She was surprised to see Sirius nod.   
  
"I never had the chance to see him, though," Abby continued slowly, "as he wasn't quite the fashion plate his predecessor was. He never came to Gladrags. But back when I was still in school, I would see Madam Pomfrey sometimes in the evening, leading someone under the cloak across the grounds..."   
  
"Did you see where they went?"   
  
"No, the windows in Hufflepuff Turret were too narrow. But when he left Hogwarts after teaching there last year, we – we in the village – found out about his...condition."   
  
Sirius smiled sadly. "That's why we sent Remus out on the dance floor. He was the stealthy one."   
  
"I'd wondered about that," Abby admitted. "I'd sometimes listen for your footfall when I saw the cloak. If I didn't hear anything at all, I knew it was him. But James – James walked like a prefect. Steady and determined. Peter shuffled. And you – well, you never exactly bothered to tread lightly. Is – is that why you became an Animagus? Because of Remus?"   
  
Sirius nodded. "Remus needed someone who could keep a werewolf in check. Hence Padfoot."   
  
He gazed at the fire for a long moment, during which Abby observed with another flush that in all the laughter and joking, they had somehow moved closer together on the couch. But as he did not seem to notice or mind, she stayed in her place. After a time, Sirius turned back to her.   
  
"Now tell me, what else did you see?"   
  
Searching through her memory, Abby began to rattle off a list –   
  
"Well, the route to the kitchens does pass very near to the Hufflepuff common room…thank you for that knowledge, by the way…and then there were several pranks on the Slytherins…the four of you did seem to have it in for Severus Snape, didn't you?…and I don't know that Filch ever sorted out who had placed time-release Dungbombs under all the house tables at that one Halloween feast."   
  
She could not resist her last mention. "And as a hard-working Hufflepuff, I did spend some time in the library, which does share part of the path to the Astronomy Tower…"   
  
Her playful jibe did not connect at first, but after a moment, Sirius' face blanched. "You – you – you didn't ever actually follow the cloak up to the Tower, did you?" he asked, his mouth twitching.   
  
Abby paused dramatically, enjoying the growing look of dread on his face. But then she laughed, shaking her head. "No, you prat, I wasn't _that_ desperate for entertainment. Besides, it seemed to be James and Lily most often. But what might I have seen, had I followed you there?"   
  
Sirius regained his composure. "NOTHING," he said forcefully, before breaking into a grin. "James and Lily would have provided a better show, anyway. She did deserve that trick at the Yule Ball, you know, after monopolizing my best mate." His voice trailed off reflectively. "They made me Harry's godfather, you know. I was so proud when that boy was born. But a bloody lot of good I've been able to do for him."   
  
Abby reached out timidly and took Sirius' hand again. "I'm sure you've done all you could," she whispered.   
  
"I'm the boy's godfather, and yet _he_ had to save _my_ life last year. _Twice,_ for that matter."   
  
"What happened?"   
  
"Dementors." The word sent a shiver down Abby's spine. "Cornelius Fudge had given them permission to give me the Kiss. They almost had me, when Harry drove them off with a Patronus."   
  
"A _Patronus?_" Abby blurted out. "Isn't that rather advanced? Harry cast a _Patronus?_"   
  
"It is. And he did. But I was caught again, and while those damn fools Fudge and Snape went to summon the dementors to Kiss me, AGAIN, Harry broke me out of the room and sent me off on Buckbeak. Now, I owe my life to him." He set his gaze back on the fire.   
  
Abby stared at Sirius' profile, which had altered while he spoke of Harry. She had seen him react with a multitude of frightening and harsh emotions, but she had never heard him speak of anything with love. The emotion softened his face, adding a brightness his expressions.   
  
"The ancient magic – a life-debt, correct?" she ventured, still amazed at the transformation.   
  
Sirius nodded, not looking at Abby. "Although as his godfather, I would do it anyway. I can't even begin to tell you what James meant to me."   
  
They both fell into silent contemplation, until Abby gave an abrupt laugh. "Good gracious, this doesn't mean I'm going to have to pull you from a burning building, does it?"   
  
"What?" Sirius had been staring at Grandmother Connelly's loom.   
  
"On the way home from Hogwarts last year? The encounter with Hagrid's pet? You saved my life, remember?"   
  
Sirius shrugged, still staring at the beginnings of the Whisper Weave cloth. "I've told you, that was nothing. I did a bit of barking, and the thing left. Try wrestling with a werewolf."   
  
"Well," Abby peered around to pull his attention away from the loom, assuming a look of gravity, "I _was_ unconscious and on fire. That strikes me as at least moderately perilous."   
  
Sirius turned his face to her and laughed. "Point taken. But really, I don't think you need to worry about that. You've already done so much for me." He paused thoughtfully, before breaking into a devilish smirk. "And you say you saw Remus in the cloak from Hufflepuff Turret? Didn't that place serve in much the same capacity as the Astronomy Tower? I bet Cushioning Charms came in handy there, eh?"   
  
Abby's face coloured to the roots of her hair.   
  
_Oh, blast your memory…_   
  
"In my fourth year, it was only a quiet place to study," she stammered. "But how did you know about the Turret? Oh, never mind – I don't want to know." She reddened even further at the awareness that once again, she had neglected to let go of his hand.   
  
_Bugger, I seem to be making a habit of this._   
  
"Do you think you'll always work at Gladrags?" Sirius asked.   
  
"I don't know," Abby mused, trying not to pay attention to the feel of his fingers intertwined with hers. "Most of the time, I enjoy it. I suppose I'd just like people to recognize that it takes an ounce or two of brains to run a shop successfully."   
  
"What's that?" Sirius then asked, pointing at the rich, black cloth on Grandmother Connelly's loom. "_That_ doesn't look like an Invisibility Cloak."   
  
"You're right. It's not. It's a little something I'm doing for Dumbledore. I…" She hesitated, biting on her lip. "I do a bit more than sewing for him. But that's all I can tell you."   
  
"It's for Lucius Malfoy, isn't it?"   
  
Abby nodded slowly. "But please understand that five minutes in his presence is enough to put me off my lunch for a week."   
  
Sirius gave a wry smile. "And please know that having encountered the Whomping Willow myself, I do know how much it hurts."   
  
"Acknowledged." Abby leaned back into the sofa, baffled at how the evening's initial confrontation had somehow come to this. Telling Sirius of her weaving had been much easier – and much more satisfying – than she would have ever thought.   
  
"How did a cloak made by your grandmother find its way to James?" he asked after a few minutes.   
  
"James' great-granddad was the Healer in her village. He even delivered her only baby – my mum. I think the memory stayed with her pretty strongly, as that's the only cloak she ever talked about. It was a very difficult birth, I gather. She almost died, but he saw things through until the end. She always said that he saved her life."   
  
"I don't think James even knew about that," Sirius replied thoughtfully. "Can you detect _all_ Invisibility Cloaks? What about the ones your mother made?"   
  
Abby leaned her head to the side. "I'm not sure. Perhaps I should tour all of Britain and see if I spot any. I've really only noted James' cloak. I know who received my mum's last cloak, but as far as I know, I've never seen him use it."   
  
_Alastor Moody, dad's crony from the Ministry – one of the best Aurors they'd ever had, he always said. Mum made her last cloak for him._   
  
At once, a flood of thoughts and memories rushed into Abby's mind. Among them was a snippet of conversation she had shared with her father while recently in Paris –   
  
_"What exactly did you do for the Ministry when I was growing up?"   
  
Hollister smiled. "I could tell you, my dear, but you'd hear "Obliviate!" shortly thereafter."   
  
"You worked with Alastor Moody, didn't you?"   
  
"Our departments worked on a few joint projects, yes. And Moody pulled me out of the mire more than once. How is the old coot? I pity the student who takes a nap in his class."_   
  
Another recollection was a bit of dialogue she had heard as a young girl, hiding behind the door to her father's study. Mr. Moody, as she had called him then, had been practicing curses on the armchair –   
  
_"Saving my neck a few times doesn't entitle you to destroying my furniture, Moody."   
  
"Rather I practice on you, Hollister? I've half a mind to, after that last game of Gobstones, you rotten, scummy cheater!"   
  
"It's a good thing that Helen's got a soft spot for you, or you'd have been banned from the house years ago. Now come and eat – dinner's ready."_   
  
Abby had always assumed that "saving my neck" meant Moody had fetched a forgotten report for her father, or perhaps loaned him some Floo powder in a pinch. But perhaps her father's words had been much more literal…   
  
_Grandmother's life was saved by Matthias Potter…and Dad's was saved by Alastor Moody…and mine was saved by…Sirius Black. Sirius._   
  
The thoughts knotted together, tying themselves into one great understanding. Abby felt her jaw drop.   
  
_The cloak. I know what to do. I know who should have it._   
  
As she reviewing the ideas over and over in her mind, becoming increasingly certain as to their veracity, the only thing that rivaled the shock of comprehension was the realization that she had somehow managed to lay her head on Sirius Black's shoulder. But Sirius had not moved; he stared into the fire, his eyes weary from the late hour and the emotion of the evening. As Abby frantically tried to think of how she might extricate her head without attracting his attention _(or falling on the floor from sheer and utter relief)_, she suddenly felt the pressure of his arm dropping behind her back, his fingers encircling her upper arm. They remained quiet for a long moment, until Sirius let out a soft laugh.   
  
"I never knew nosiness was a trait of Hufflepuff House. If we'd had any idea that someone was watching us all those times – "   
  
Abby glanced up and smirked at him. "Can you really call it nosiness, Sirius? It was glaringly obvious when _you_ were afoot – you sounded like a herd of invisible Erumpents charging down the corridor."   
  
Sirius gave a tired, crooked grin and rested his head against the sofa's cushioned back, closing his eyes. And as Abby cautiously tilted her head again and felt the soft rub of his sleeve against her cheek, she thought for the briefest moment that his grasp tightened around her arm.   
  
_A/N – You saw the "Sirius gets the cloak" thing coming from 20 miles away, didn't you?   
  
For more on Remus being the quiet jokester at Hogwarts, and for some good Remus love all around, I heartily recommend **Alkari's** "A Most Unusual Student".   
  
I borrowed the song title "Every Little Thing She Does is Magic" from Gordon Sumner/Sting, liberally assuming that he used to sing with The Billywigs when not on tour with his first band. Well, he looks magical, doesn't he?_


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8**   
  
Hours later, a persistent nudging to her arm stirred Abby from a very deep sleep. She fought against it, slapping at the offending pokes with her hand; she was so warm and cozy, she had no desire to move. She did move, however, when she finally opened her eyes and saw exactly why she had been so comfortable. She looked down in sudden worry and then breathed a quick sigh of relief. No, thank Merlin, she had not drooled on Sirius Black's robes. She looked up quickly and saw him regarding her with drowsy humour.   
  
"Shall we go to bed?" he asked.   
  
Though groggy and disoriented, Abby managed to raise an eyebrow.   
  
"I mean, would _you_ like to go upstairs, to your own bed?" he stammered. "You – you'll have to be up early for work."   
  
"It's Sunday," she replied, yawning. "Shop's closed."   
  
Sirius slowly stood up from the sofa and stretched out his long arms above him. Abby tumbled over into the warm, empty spot he had left, curled herself up, and closed her eyes. Sirius began to laugh, pulling at her arm.   
  
"Come on, Abby – it's only a few steps. You'll sleep better upstairs. And someone has to make my breakfast tomorrow," he added with a smirk.   
  
"I'm fine thank you go away goodnight," she mumbled into the sofa. She had just drifted off again when large drops of water began to pepper her face. She shielded herself with one arm and flailed about tiredly with the other. Awake at last, she cracked open an eye grumpily. Sirius stood by the sofa, dipping his fingers into a glass of water that she had left in the cellar. Abby hurriedly pushed herself up before the next onslaught began.   
  
"Okay, I'm awake! I'm awake!" she growled. "And don't count on breakfast, you big git. You should remember that I'm the one with a wand, and I'm not afraid to use it."   
  
"It's your raisins I'm afraid of," he laughed, taking her by the hands and pulling her from the sofa. "Now steady, steady."   
  
Abby had risen too quickly, causing the world before her to spin into blackness. Sirius grasped her arm as she tottered back and forth for a few moments, and he kept his hold as they began walking over to the hearthrug.   
  
"Not that I doubt you," he explained, "but I don't want to be held responsible for any injuries you might incur."   
  
"Oh, shut it," she said tipsily, her leg coming precariously close to the edge of a worktable. "I can walk just…just fine."   
  
They stood on the hearthrug together, and though it took her three tries for Abby to get the spell off her uncooperative tongue, they eventually rose into the cottage above. Once there, Sirius went directly to the sofa, where he sprawled his limbs out eagerly.   
  
"So you Weavers aren't all old crones with magical knitting needles?" The question was punctuated with a wide yawn.   
  
Abby smiled. "No, some of us work in the distinguished field of wizarding fashion. Good night." She was halfway to her room before his voice halted her.   
  
"The Third Task is in just a few days. I need to be near Harry."   
  
With teetering feet, she retraced her steps, pausing to clutch the back of the sofa for support. She peered over at Sirius, whose eyes were already closed.   
  
_I understand. You have to go._   
  
"Your old robes are in the back of that cupboard by the door…I am going to burn those rags, you know…someday, when you're not looking…"   
  
Sirius nodded slightly and then reached out to blindly grab a cushion, which he wadded under his head.   
  
"I hate those robes…" his voice drifted off. Feeling unexpectedly alert, Abby tightened her grip on the back of the sofa.   
  
_If he hates those nasty tatters, then why – _  
  
"I didn't want…" he said, nestling further into the cushion, "I didn't want anyone to trace the new ones to you…in case I was caught…"   
  
Her mouth opened, but Sirius had left the conscious world, and so Abby tucked his words away for later perusal. The weight of secrets shared, discoveries made, and trust given was already overwhelming. Deep thought would come later – right now she wanted only to unburden her mind with a few more hours of slumber. After a quiet giggle at the way Sirius' mouth hung open when he slept, Abby trudged back to her room and immediately collapsed upon her pillows.   
  
The living room was vacant when Abby came to her bedroom doorway the next morning, but she had expected as much. Her legs stiff and heavy, she plodded over to the sofa, where the robes Sirius had worn earlier lay folded. Scanning the room furtively to ensure that it truly _was_ empty, she lifted the garment to her face and closed her eyes, smiling drowsily. Hopefully, the Third Task would soon pass without incident, and then Sirius could come back. She was anxious to give him the completed cloak, but she had no great desire to trek out into the woods after him to do so.   
  
Taking the robes with her, Abby went over to the kitchen and began making a cup of mint tea. She actually felt a bit of relief that Sirius had already left – she would not have known quite what to say after the night before, or how to remove herself for the entire day to sort out what was, for her, an earth-shattering revelation. She almost spilled her tea as she imagined what her father would say to her news.   
  
_'Hello, Dad? You'll never guess who's supposed to receive the cloak. Remember that Sirius Black fellow? Yes, the one from the papers? The dangerous convict? The mass murderer? Well, he's actually rather nice, and he did save my life. Oh, and he's been living with me from time to time…'_   
  
Perhaps it was best that her father not know of this just yet, Abby thought, mopping up a few drops of tea from the table. All in the interests of wizarding secrecy, of course. She ran her hand over Sirius' robes, remembering how nicely they had offset his eyes last night. She took another sip, wondering in how many other ways might she have misjudged him.   
  
_It's not as though there's a tag with my name on it, but I suppose the M.L.E.S. might question how someone like him came to be so finely attired._   
  
Even after she had eaten and dressed for the day, the feeling of resolution still made Abby lightheaded. She almost did not know where to begin. The road ahead of her seemed strangely unencumbered, with the exception of the Whisper Weave project. With the guesswork of potions and spells in the making of Invisibility Cloaks now eliminated, she might be able to shave a few years off the making of her next one, and perhaps even more time off the making of the one after that. And the one after that, for the rest of her life.   
  
_I just hope it doesn't require a near-death experience each time._   
  
As she made her way to the hearthrug, intent on hunting down a much-needed spellbook from the weaving room, a sudden thought caused Abby to catch her breath. Dumbledore. The rift with him had bothered her more than she had cared to admit. He had made no attempts at communication since their last meeting, when she had rudely walked out on him. For that reason, she dreaded the thought of seeing him again, although any harbored resentment had passed with last night's epiphany.   
  
_Dumbledore's not one you just thumb your nose at… What was I thinking? _  
  
Changing course, Abby walked to the front door instead. Dumbledore needed to know of her discovery, and she was encouraged by the thought that he might share in her elation. If nothing else, _he_ would not be terribly shocked at the notion that she wanted to give the cloak to a wanted felon.   
  
She opened the door and stepped out into the early morning sunlight, ready to make amends. But as she turned to close the door, Abby stopped in confusion. There, on the usually clean surface, was a big, muddy paw print. She burst into peals of laughter as the meaning of it dawned on her.   
  
_I did ask for a note next time, didn't I?_   
  
Beaming, she set off for Hogwarts, her heart light and happy.   
  
Abby's face glistened with perspiration by the time she finished the walk to the school. In her exuberance, she had almost skipped along the path. If only there was a way that she could magically transport herself from the front doors to Dumbledore's office; she did not care to have any of the students see her in such a state. But as she crossed the grounds, she glimpsed the flutter of brilliant sapphire robes and a long white beard heading in the direction of…_the Quidditch pitch?_ Or at least, the area where the Quidditch pitch had once been. It now looked like a Herbology project run amok. Brambly hedges towered into the air, covering almost the entire area. Shaking her head in disbelief, Abby picked up her skirts and ran after the unmistakable figure of Albus Dumbledore.   
  
The headmaster had already climbed into the stands by the time she reached the pitch and staggered up the stairs. She found him sitting down, his arms crossed in front of him, one hand running thoughtfully over his beard. Abby opened her mouth to speak, but as she suddenly felt as though she might keel over onto the grass below, she grasped onto a nearby railing instead. Dumbledore waiting patiently as she gathered her breath, a slight look of surprise on his face.   
  
"Sir, I've got it. I think I've got it," Abby finally gasped, clutching at her side with her other hand. "Oh, and I'm terribly sorry for running out on you."   
  
Dumbledore gave a wide smile, waving a long hand dismissively. "Oh tosh, Abigail! We all deserve to have those moments now and again. You deserve them more than most, I dare say. Now sit down, dear, and tell me what has you so animated this morning."   
  
"Thank you, but I – I think I'll stand until have my breath back," she panted. She gazed out onto the pitch, which she now saw resembled some sort of a maze. "I'm glad to find you here, sir. I'd have had no idea which sweet to guess for your password. What _is_ that on the Quidditch pitch?"   
  
"It is for the Third Task – impressive, is it not?" Dumbledore said. "Professor Sprout has outdone herself, although I dare say I shall breathe a long sigh of relief when this tournament is over. I now remember why they are held only every five years – it is enough to drive one completely batty."   
  
Abby nodded and then glanced back at the pitch, which was being approached loudly by two strange figures. The second figure was definitely Hagrid, but he was being towed in the wake of a large creature with a thick, sleek shell, a curved sting… Abby squinted her eyes again. That was a very _familiar_ creature.   
  
"Jus' makin' certain he feels a' home in the place, Professor Dumbledore!" Hagrid hollered out, waving wildly. For a man of his size, he jumped aside quite nimbly as a blast of fire skimmed his boots. Somehow, he managed to steer the beast into the entrance of the labyrinth.   
  
Abby looked at Dumbledore, her mouth slightly agape. "He didn't have that thing when it was a baby, did he? Using the term 'baby' very loosely, of course."   
  
The headmaster laughed. "Yes, he did, and I believe I may have to have a word with him about his affinity for hazardous course subjects. The Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures has been quite persistent with their owls. Why do you ask?"   
  
"I had a run-in with a smaller version of that thing, late last year. Goodness, doesn't Hagrid believe in restraining devices for his monsters?"   
  
Dumbledore bobbed his head, thinking. "Ah yes, I remember that. No, I am afraid Hagrid has a much different criteria for what constitutes a 'monster'. I did add some extra spells to the skrewt cages after that incident, however."   
  
Her brow creased, Abby sat down on the bench. "But…how did you know about that? I didn't tell you, did I?"   
  
He shook his head. "No, you did not, but Sirius let me know as much. I am very grateful that he happened upon you that evening."   
  
Abby closed her mouth, feeling slightly flummoxed, and wondered again as to the extent of Sirius' communication with the headmaster. While the circumstances following Snuffles' rescue had happened innocently enough, she certainly did not want the greatest wizard of her time to know that she had, among other things, once thrown a criminal Animagus into her bathtub.   
  
"Sir, exactly what do you…how much do you…" Abby shifted her gaze downward, trying to occupy her anxiously fidgeting hands.   
  
Dumbledore did not make her finish the question. "I know that you gave him food, shelter, and friendship. I cannot tell you how surprised I was when you first told me of your new 'pet'. But upon further reflection, it seemed very much like something our Sirius would do. He does have the tendency to act first from emotion, and later with his mind."   
  
He paused, speaking in a softer tone.   
  
"You have a kind and trusting heart, Abigail, something I am sure Sirius did not expect to find, but something which he surely needed. These last months have been difficult for him – his worries for Harry have consumed him almost entirely."   
  
"Please know that I never intended for this to happen, sir," Abby said quietly. "I don't make a habit of housing convicts."   
  
"We rarely do intend these things," Dumbledore replied, eyes twinkling. "But they happen all the same. Sherbert lemon?"   
  
He had reached into his robes and pulled forth a small tin bearing the Honeydukes label. Abby happily accepted the proffered sweet. Dumbledore popped one in his own mouth, then looked away. Though garbled slightly from the sherbet lemon, his voice became contemplative, almost wistful.   
  
"I have questioned myself many times over the years, wondering if was right to go to such great extremes to conceal your gift, to ask you to give up so much," he began slowly. "I have considered numerous other options, but try as I might to find a way to give you a life of some normalcy, I felt each time that this was the necessary direction. You may not know, dear, but you are the last Weaver in our land. Lord Voldemort's followers would dearly love to control such ability."   
  
_Just as Dad said._   
  
"I believe you, sir, but why would the they go to so much trouble for something I can only complete every eighteen years or so?"   
  
Dumbledore kept his gaze trained on the twisting hedges, but he raised his eyebrows knowingly.   
  
"But Abigail, you are proving right now that your weaving can be adapted to other powerful uses. And I must tell you that many of our magical skills and arts have either died out or been corrupted by Dark forces over the years, simply because their bearers did not guard them carefully enough or care to continue them. The singularity of your gift makes you unique among our kind at present."   
  
Abby looked down at her robes and smiled wryly. "Well, I'd do my best to turn out a brood of little Weavers, but I fear the chances of that are growing increasingly slender."   
  
"Do not forsake all hope, my dear," Dumbledore replied, stroking his beard. "You may yet be surprised. I would never have imagined that Honeydukes would put strawberry mousse into their Chocoballs – they were really quite dull with just empty air inside – but they did, and I have been delighted ever since."   
  
Abby bit her lip, trying not to giggle.   
  
"And in corresponding with our friends abroad," he continued, "I have also begun to wonder recently if more Weavers might actually exist among us. Though the gift is most often found in families, perhaps it is not always a magical inheritance, just as young witches and wizards are often born to Muggle parents. Perhaps there are those in whom the gift lies latent. You might be just the person to find them."   
  
"Would that call for another holiday?" Abby asked, her eyes brightening at the prospect.   
  
"Perhaps," Dumbledore replied laughingly, popping another sherbert lemon into his mouth. "For your sake, I hope so."   
  
"What about looms, though? Are any other magical looms available anywhere?"   
  
"I have an idea as to where a few might be found. I believe we might even have one tucked away here at Hogwarts, although I cannot for the life of me remember where."   
  
The two sat in silence for a moment, savouring their sweets and watching as clouds of smoke, mingled with a few manly yelps, rose from the hedges. Abby mopped the remaining perspiration off her face and let out a sigh of ease. She had missed Dumbledore's company – eccentricities, mysteries, and all.   
  
"Now Abigail," he said at length, once they had depleted the tin of sherbert lemons. "I am most curious to know how you plan to finish the Invisibility Cloak. I gather you have discovered the missing component?"   
  
She nodded solemnly. "I have. It's…well, it's gratitude, for lack of a better phrase."   
  
Dumbledore pulled a handkerchief out of his robes and began to wipe off his sugared fingers. "That must be a tremendous weight off your shoulders."   
  
"It is!" she blurted out. "I'm not sure whether to laugh or cry. But it will repay my portion of a debt owed."   
  
"And who will the Invisibility Cloak now claim as its owner?"   
  
Abby squirmed slightly at the question. After all they had just discussed, she did not want Dumbledore to think that she might have had more personal motives for giving Sirius the cloak. But while she had made the connection only the evening before, the cloak's ownership had been decided months ago, when a loyal animal had come to her much-needed aid on a cold forest night. This was the right course. Abby took a deep breath and met the headmaster's eye.   
  
"Sirius. The cloak is for Sirius."   
  
An agonizing pause ensued, during which Abby felt her confidence begin to waver. Just as she was about to avert her eyes, Dumbledore broke into a delighted smile.   
  
"Brilliant," he whispered, clasping Abby's hand. "Brilliant. I confess it was with a great deal of consternation that I asked Sirius to leave your company last December. However, I strongly believed that the sooner you were able to focus on your weaving, the sooner the answers would come and you would feel at peace. I need not tell you that Sirius is not a typical houseguest. Though much of the din has died down, the Ministry is still actively searching for him. I did not want either of you to come into harm's way. But perhaps I should have trusted you more, dear child."   
  
"Perhaps you should have," she replied quietly. "Although, that's always easy to say in hindsight. Either way, I was _sorely_ tempted to owl you a shipment of – "   
  
"Invisi-Pins?" Dumbledore finished the phrase, his eyes twinkling at her look of shock. "Yes, I do know of the methods that you and Taffeta used to employ with your poorly behaved clientele." He let out a sigh. "Abigail, you are a delight. Now, if I am not mistaken, you have a bit of work to do."   
  
Abby grinned in reply, hoping that Dumbledore did not know too much about her and Madame Bussell's exploits with Chafing Charms. "I do. It shouldn't be much, though, not if my calculations are correct."   
  
"Will you be joining the village for the Third Task?"   
  
She nodded. "We're gathering at The Three Broomsticks. The few who've been cleared by the Ministry to attend will be sending down play-by-play owls."   
  
Dumbledore stood up, brushing off the powdery dusting of sugar that coated his blue robes.   
  
"Excellent. It should be a night to remember. Now, if you will excuse me," – he bowed slightly – "I had best go and retrieve Hagrid before he and his friend burn down our maze entirely."   
  
Abby stood up and threw her arms around the headmaster's neck, a move that surprised her just as much as it did him. Before he could react, she turned on her heels and ran back to the stairs. Pausing at the top, she turned and gave a quick wave goodbye.   
  
"Thank you, sir!"   
  
She tumbled down the stairs as fast as she trusted her feet to go, feeling that the world was a good and wonderful place. She had never been so anxious to weave, nor so eager to see Sirius Black's face again.   
  
Later that day, Abby let out a cry of both triumph and pain as she crawled out from underneath her bed. After combing the house for most of the early afternoon, she had finally found the missing spellbook. That accounted for the triumph. The pain came from bumping her skull against a rail as she seized upon the volume. Rubbing the top of her head, she sat on the edge of the bed and wiped the dust off the book's cover, coughing as she accidentally inhaled some of the airborne particles.   
  
_Spells of Reciprocity, by Rhonda Bout,_ it read. Abby nodded in satisfaction. This should have just the information she needed.   
  
With a tremor of excitement, she journeyed down to the weaving room to begin the finishing process of her Invisibility Cloak. She had planned to first move to the sofa and read through the book, plotting the sequence of spells, but her feet moved almost of their own accord to the finishing frame.   
  
Abby ran a hand over the gleaming cloth, feeling a slight pang at the realization that it would soon no longer be there. But she was certain that this was the right thing to do. She traced her hand down it again, admiring the evenness and beauty of the weave…the warp and weft, the warp and weft, the warp and – Her hand stopped abruptly, and her thoughts began to race.   
  
_No. It can't be._   
  
It was almost too rich, too ridiculous. And she could not be entirely sure – self-taught in many aspects of her weaving, her mind did not always go to the proper terms for things. But as much as she wanted to dismiss the silly notion, Abby recalled too clearly the crisp voice of Grandmother Connelly giving an early weaving lesson. She raised her wand toward a sagging bookshelf in a back corner of the room.   
  
_"Accio!"_ She smirked as a thin volume soared through the air and landed in her hand. At least she knew this book's location. She quickly thumbed through its pages of weaving terminology, her finger coming to rest upon a page at the end. She mumbled the passage half out loud.   
  
_'Weft', from the Old English 'to weave', refers to the threads running crosswise in a woven fabric. Also known as…the 'woof'._   
  
Abby lowered the book, her mouth round in surprise. She gave a short, incredulous laugh, which expanded and grew until she was holding her sides with mirth. When the shock passed, she wiped her eyes with the back of her hand and looked back at the page again.   
  
_The 'woof'. Well, if I were to ever need a sign of cosmic confirmation, this would be it. The fates must approve._   
  
With a giddy smile, she moved to the sofa and settled down for a long read.   
  
A few days later, in the hours before the Triwizard Tournament's Third Task, Abby stood in her weaving room, endeavoring to keep herself from fainting. The moment had come. She was ready to cast the final, completing spells on her Invisibility Cloak. Clenching her wand, she took a few calming breaths, which still did not do much to help her racing heart.   
  
Postponing the moment for a few more seconds, she looked down at the sight before her. The Demiguise fabric had been loosed from the finishing frame and now draped over the wooden rectangle, awaiting its fate. Abby shuffled her feet and then stood firm, steeling herself. The gouges and lines impressed on her wand were reassuring in an odd, yet fitting way. In the most even voice she could muster, she opened her mouth and uttered the first incantation –   
  
_"Adiunctus Sirius Black!"_   
  
The words seemed to echo throughout the room in the dreadful moment of silence that followed. Abby frantically played the phrase over in her head, praying her Latin had not failed her.   
  
_Bound to…belonging to…Sirius Black._   
  
A burst of sparkling, glowing brightness erupted before her, startling her backward a few paces. The cloth was rising slowly from the finishing frame, rippling as though held in the wind – it crept upward until it hovered near the ceiling in a cloud of light. Abby covered her open mouth with her hand, her eyes widening. She had never been witness to this event before.   
  
A pulse of energy coursed through the room, causing Abby to tremble and shake. She watched in awe as a cloak piece separated itself cleanly from the length of cloth, as though cut out with a razor of light, and floated to the side. A bewildered smile crept across her face as the cloth fluidly reshaped itself into a gleaming whole. Though slightly smaller in size, it still looked beautifully untouched, its threads gleaming and intact.   
  
Another pulse, and then another… Abby continued to look on, barely breathing, until finally, one last piece remained of the original cloth. It twisted in the air above her, forming itself into a hood. Then, as one, the shimmering pieces all glided over to rest directly in front of Abby. They lingered in the air, as though waiting for her command. She felt as if a force outside her was raising her arm, lifting her wand to the silvery forms and compelling her voice to speak.   
  
_"Suturo!"_ she cried, almost in a gasp.   
  
In one swift movement, the pieces joined themselves together into a finished garment, glistening beads of silver whisking up the seams, closing them shut. There was one more burst of energy, one more flash of light, and then the room became eerily quiet. Abby stared dumbstruck as her first Invisibility Cloak, sized perfectly for Sirius Black, fell completed into her arms.   
  
Still somewhat dazed, Abby made her way to The Three Broomsticks that evening to enjoy the Third Task with the rest of the Hogsmeade villagers. Her feet felt far from sure as she walked up the High Street, and she had to apologize more than once for bumping distractedly into fellow pedestrians, but tonight, she did not mind the clumsiness. Eighteen years of weaving, potions brewing, and spell casting had finally come to fruition – reason enough to feel a little giddy.   
  
Abby did not need to worry about her footing as she got caught up in the throng entering the pub – the crush of people kept her easily upright. Liberally applying a few elbows, she twisted herself out of the crowd and wove her way to the furthermost corner of the room, exchanging a few waves to familiar faces as she stepped over boots and wriggled around the tightly packed tables. She stopped once as Rosemary Cleaves, the grocer's wife, passed a few custard tarts to her, and a second time as Jasper Zonko gave her some Ruckus Raisers – his newest noisemaker – to celebrate what he felt would be a certain Hogwarts victory. Abby grinned and thanked him, knowing that she would never use the devices; several of the pub's patrons already had violet lips, and a few others were just returning to their normal selves after being transformed into guinea fowl. She took another moment to say "hello" to Priscilla Puddifoot, who was still looking miffed that the event was not being held in her establishment.   
  
Finally, Abby reached a small table in the back and sunk gratefully into the wooden chair behind it. She had just started to empty her arms of their load when a splash of green gillywater fell in the middle of one of the tarts. Abby looked up to see her former classmate, Gil Barlow, grinning cheekily at her.   
  
"Well hullo, Miss Abigail," he drawled, taking a sip from his glass and looking her over brazenly. "You look like you could do with a bit of company this evening."   
  
Abby smiled sweetly. "I'd love for you to join me, Gil, but there is a chance that I might tip your drink over in all the excitement that's to come."   
  
The brashness rapidly left Gil's face as he pondered Abby's words. "Well, that's a very good point, love…say, is that Clive Grubb at the bar? Must be off – enjoy yourself, now…"   
  
He exited quickly, gripping his gillywater protectively to his chest, and Abby let out a sound of wholehearted relief. She was not in the mood for companionship tonight. The gentleman she most wished to see was probably barking at squirrels right now, not downing a pint at the pub.   
  
She had just begun to imagine how Sirius might react to the cloak when a large bottle of butterbeer thudded on the table in front of her. Glancing around in surprise, she saw Madam Rosmerta waving cheerily from the bar. Abby's eyes followed as the landlady nodded her head toward the dismissed Gil and laughed. Abby raised her butterbeer in return, mouthing her thanks with a wide smile, and Rosmerta went back to her task of directing her staff of barkeeps. The pub continued to fill with people, their excited talk spilling out its doors and on to the street.   
  
Feeling a sudden pang of hunger, Abby had consumed half of a custard tart before she noticed its unusual shape. She lowered the remaining portion from her mouth and, after turning it around in several different directions, realized she had eaten half of a badger paw. She giggled. How fitting – Mrs. Cleaves had been a Hufflepuff. She must be pulling for the Diggory boy to win tonight, Abby thought, and by all counts, he very well might. He and Harry Potter were tied for first place, but young Cedric had the benefits of additional age and magical experience on his side. The evening promised to be interesting.   
  
Just as she popped the last delicious morsel into her mouth, a sharp whistle resounded from the front of the room. Rosmerta was standing high above the bar, presumably on some sort of crate, calling the room to attention.   
  
"Ladies and gents," she began cheerily, "I welcome you to The Three Broomsticks – until you start causing too much damage to the place, that is – to mark the final task of the Triwizard Tournament! We have two lads from Hogwarts in the competition tonight – let's wish them all the best, shall we? To Hogwarts!"   
  
She lifted a glass of red currant wine into the air, and the remainder of the pub followed suit, loudly hollering, "To Hogwarts!" Rosmerta brought two fingers to her mouth and whistled again to bring their attention back to her.   
  
"And…" she continued with a sly wink, "should one of our boys win, there'll be a round on the house for all of you!" A chorus of appreciative shouts met the announcement. Rosmerta wagged a finger at the villagers, raising her voice to be heard over the clamor.   
  
"But I warn you," she called out, "I know _all_ your names and faces, and I'll keep you to just the one drink!" The crowd groaned, and a few of the men pounded their mugs on the table in mock protest. Abby marveled at Rosmerta's command of the room. She certainly had a flair for her work. Abby could handle a shopful of customers fairly well, but a group of this nature would trample over her in minutes.   
  
"Now pipe down, pipe down," Rosmerta went on, glancing at the clock on the wall. "We should be receiving our first owl soon."   
  
As if on cue, a tawny screech owl glided through the door, alighting on an empty barstool. The person nearest it untied the parchment from the bird's leg and handed it to Rosmerta, who scanned the message eagerly.   
  
"The Third Task has begun!" she cried out. "Potter and Diggory have entered the maze first, followed by Viktor Krum and Fleur Delacour."   
  
The pub patrons stomped their boots. Shouts of "C'mon Diggory!" and "Show 'em, Potter!" resounded throughout the room. Abby took a long drink of her butterbeer and went back to her musings. The Invisibility Cloak was back in the cottage, tucked in the far reaches of a cupboard, waiting for Sirius. Surely he would come by after the tournament had ended. She leaned back in her chair and bit into another tart as Rosmerta read two more owls in quick succession.   
  
"Bursts of smoke are coming from the maze, but no red sparks yet. The champions seem to be doing well. No one has got near the Triwizard Cup yet."   
  
Abby finished the last of her butterbeer in one long gulp, wondering how Sirius might be observing the task. A dog as large as Padfoot was hardly inconspicuous. She tapped her fingers on the tabletop, wishing for the task to pass more quickly. There were other things she would really rather be doing. She had just begun to shift impatiently in her chair when another owl soared through the open pub door. Rosmerta unrolled the parchment hastily, her eyes bright with anticipation, but she let out a small cry as she read the note. The talk in the room dwindled to a hush as the crowd took in the landlady's unexpected reaction.   
  
"They've just pulled Fleur Delacour from the maze…" Rosmerta slowly said, still staring at the parchment. "She's not moving…she looks to be Stunned."   
  
The empty butterbeer bottle that Abby had been twirling about fell to the table as her hand froze. A knot began to form in the pit of her stomach. Sirius had been right. He did need to be near Harry tonight. From what the village had heard, all sorts of magical beasts and enchantments had awaited the champions inside the thick, twisty labyrinth of hedges, but nothing capable of wielding a wand should have been there. As Rosmerta's shaky voice read out the next few owls and the conversation in the pub came to a dead standstill, Abby had the sickening feeling that something in the Third Task was going terribly, terribly awry.   
  
The dark interior of Gladrags was strangely calm, despite the shadowy figures and hurried footsteps that passed outside the shop windows. Abby sat motionless on the chaise lounge, knees pulled up to her chest, eyes staring forward. Rosmerta's final phrases played over and over in her head, becoming more ominous and horrific with each repetition:   
  
_"They heard shrieking from inside…more red sparks…rumours of…of Unforgivable Curses."   
  
"Viktor Krum was just taken out of the maze…he, too, looked Stunned."   
  
"Potter and Diggory have reached the Cup at the same time! But they – they what? This says they've disappeared. They've disappeared."_   
  
And then, after what had seemed an agonizing wait:   
  
_"The boys have returned. Cedric – Oh! Lord help us! Cedric Diggory is…is dead."_   
  
Noise had returned to the pub at that moment – the sounds of chairs scraping the floor and turning over, muffled screams, and scattered pops as villagers Disapparated to the Hogwarts gates in search of more information. Not knowing what to do, Abby had sat at her table for over an hour, mute, until she could no longer bear to hear the speculation of those who had remained.   
  
Now she sat locked in the relative stillness of Gladrags, staring at the front windows. From time to time she would glance back to the far corner of the room, to where the image of a tall and handsome boy waiting patiently while his robes were altered came all too easily to mind. She saw the self-assured way in which he carried himself, the ease with which he moved across the room. She saw the smile that flashed across his face as he looked at the pretty young woman with him. She heard the giggles, barely stifled, of the girls who stood nearby and watched. But Cedric was dead. The pride of Hufflepuff House was dead. Janet Diggory's son was dead.   
  
Abby found a scrap of solace in the fact that Harry, at least, had lived through the encounter that took Cedric's life, but she doubted he could have escaped it entirely unscathed. She hugged her knees more tightly to her, feeling too young and uncertain to deal with this changed world. As she had run up the High Street to Gladrags, she had met some of the men and women returning from Hogwarts. Their faces white, they had shared with her the report that was snaking through the frantic, hysterical crowd at the school: the Dark Lord had returned. Abby had shut herself in the shop before she could hear more. Here, in the darkness, she could almost pretend that she had no part in the things happening outside. She could feel safe, even as now, hours later, worried voices carried in from outside. Gladrags was soothing, sheltering.   
  
_Sheltering._   
  
The word echoed inside her. Gladrags was sheltering. In fact, she had been sheltered there for the last eighteen years. With the exception of Will's death, and then the infrequent conversations she had overheard from suspected wizards, her direct exposure to the evil in the wizarding world had been extremely limited. Her small part in the battle had been conducted with open ears in Gladrags, and with a shuttle and loom in the comfort of her own home. That should change. That _would_ change, Abby determined, as she rose swiftly from her seat. Moving through the back rooms of the shop, she paused in front of the Gladrags owl, Hubert. Without a second thought, she unlocked his cage, opened the back door, and set him out into the sky.   
  
Abby shivered as she stepped outside. The air of the June night seemed uncommonly cold. Gathering her skirts in one hand, she began running towards home. Hubert would be at the cottage by the time she arrived, and security precautions could be hexed for all she cared tonight. She was going to write to her father and tell him all that had happened. In the tumult of the evening, she doubted whether much attention would be paid to her one owl.   
  
She picked up her feet as she grew nearer to the cottage, reaching the door at last with heavy breath and unsteady legs. Her hands trembled as she fumbled in her pockets for her wand, and she stamped her feet with impatience. She wanted inside at once – to contact her father, to mull over ideas for any help that she might give Dumbledore. All thoughts of the Invisibility Cloak had left her mind in the last few hours, until now…   
  
Abby whirled around. Over her shoulder, she had heard the noise of something approaching, certainly not a witch or wizard by the thudding sounds it left on the ground. Narrowing her eyes into the dark, she saw a large, black animal barreling down the path, heading directly for her.   
  
Feeling as though she moved in slow motion, Abby reached inside her robes, and this time, she grasped her wand with a sure hand. In one smooth motion, she unlocked the door, threw it open and pulled Padfoot inside. She quickly secured the wards and then spun around with wild eyes, desperate to ask what he had had seen, what he knew. But before she could open her mouth, her voice and breath were pushed forcefully out of her. Sirius was pressed against her fully, pinning her tightly to the door.   
  
"Si – Sirius?" Abby gasped.   
  
Unable to catch her breath, Abby stood against the door, barely moving. If this was an embrace, it was certainly an odd one, and a _painful_ one, at that. A nerve in her shoulder cried out in sudden displeasure, causing her to squirm uncomfortably, but Sirius continued to lean into her, his face buried in the crook of her neck, his hands clutching her robes at the sides.   
  
She tried again. "Wha – what are you – "   
  
A choked, tearless sob interrupted before she got any further. Sirius' entire body was quaking. His knees faltered. Grasping ever more tightly at Abby, he slumped downward, taking her with him, until they came to rest at the foot of the door. He let out another shaking sob, the anguish in his voice sending a stab of pain through her. Without thinking, she pulled her arms free and wrapped them around his shoulders, cradling his head against her. She lowered her face and whispered into his hair as Sirius began to speak in muffled words and broken fragments that she could not understand.   
  
When his voice finally trailed off, they continued to lean against the door, neither paying any heed to the unaccustomed closeness. Abby closed her eyes and rested her head against his, feeling his breath brush her neck. Her heart had finally slowed down from the run home, and the warmth of Sirius near her was infinitely comforting. She hated to do anything – anything at all – to disrupt the moment, but she had to know –   
  
"They're saying that Voldemort is back," she said quietly.   
  
"He is," Sirius replied with a dull voice, lifting his face slightly. "He hurt Harry, tortured him. But Harry got away. He lived, but the things he saw! I – I can't – James would have known what to do for him – "   
  
"I'm glad Harry has you," Abby murmured reassuringly, the fingers of one hand twining around the ends of his hair. "You'll look after him."   
  
For the first time that evening, Sirius took his face off her shoulder and looked up. His eyes, painfully hollow, did not quite meet hers.   
  
"I have to go," he said flatly. "Dumbledore has things for me to do. I'm to go to Remus tonight."   
  
Abby's hand stopped moving.   
  
"I'll get you some food," she said lamely, taking her arms from around him with wrenching reluctance. "Just let me get to the kitchen."   
  
Sirius slowly pulled away from her and got to his feet. His body was slumped, his eyes bloodshot and empty. Abby tried to maneuver her legs around to stand up herself, but with little luck. After bearing so much of Sirius' weight on them, she was not sure if they would move at all.   
  
"Help me up?" she asked in embarrassment, flushing at the thought of the disheveled mess she must make there on the floor.   
  
Sirius looked down, and a faint trace of the old grin played around his mouth as he realized that her immobility was greatly his doing. He straightened his body and then reached down to pull her up. He held her hands for a few seconds longer as she found her footing.   
  
"Sorry."   
  
Abby smiled faintly, wishing he were not so far away. The few feet between them now seemed like such a distance.   
  
"No bother."   
  
She turned for the kitchen and began to gather whatever was readily available for Sirius. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him cross the room and stand, waiting, at the back door. She continued to gather bread, fruit, and other food, lastly emptying the remaining ginger biscuits into the bag. With a heavy heart, she walked over to Sirius. Wordlessly, he took the parcel from her.   
  
"I have to go," he said again, his eyes on the floor.   
  
She nodded slowly and had just reached for the door handle when a frantic thought stopped her.   
  
"Oh! Oh! You can't leave yet! Please, just wait –"   
  
Leaving a rather mystified Sirius in the open doorway, Abby ran to the cupboard and began to throw boots and cloaks onto the floor in a mad haste to reach what was hidden in the back. Finally, her hands seized on the Invisibility Cloak. Her hands shook as she pulled it from the cupboard. With breathless timidity, she walked back to Sirius and placed the iridescent folds across his bony shoulder.   
  
"Since we're in dispute as to whether you saved my life, I won't bother with saving yours," she began. "I will, however, give you something that someday may."   
  
Sirius stared at the gift, his expression dazed. He fingered the shining material for a long, bewildered moment. Pulling himself from his thoughts, he looked up at her quizzically.   
  
"This is the cloak you had in the cellar?"   
  
Abby nodded.   
  
"I can't take it."   
  
"I'm sorry," Abby said, a bit of amusement creeping into her voice. "Magically binding contracts being what they are, I'm afraid you have to."   
  
"I'm not certain that I can," he stammered, still stunned. "I – I've done very little for you, Abby."   
  
She placed a hand hesitantly on his forearm. "That's debatable. But please, take it. It belongs to you."   
  
Sirius's eyes went back to the cloak, which he turned over and over in the light, caressing its gleaming surface. When he spoke, his voice was hushed and wistful. "It looks so much like James' cloak."   
  
She nodded again, as tears came to her eyes. "Family resemblance, I suppose."   
  
"Thank you."   
  
"It's not a bottomless biscuit tin, I know," she joked feebly.   
  
Sirius gave an involuntary laugh and then looked up from the cloth, his eyes deepening.   
  
"I have to go."   
  
Abby felt her heart give a bittersweet twist. It seemed so unjust just that he should have to leave now, but she knew she could not stop him. If Voldemort and his evils were once more in the world, Harry Potter would need the fierce devotion and protection of his godfather. She only hoped Sirius might find some happiness. He had seen precious little joy for the last portion of his life, but a time might come when he could rest. Hopefully, they all would rest.   
  
"Go," she said, smiling sadly. "You can't stay a kept man forever."   
  
Sirius locked his grey eyes on hers. "I haven't minded," he said softly.   
  
Abby's voice caught in her throat. "Neither have I," she replied in a whisper.   
  
The moment was oddly still, despite the muffled outcries and racing footsteps that still carried down the lane. Sirius turned to leave, but Abby, acting on instinct, was quicker. Moving forward, she reached out her hands – one around the far side of his face, one to his shoulder – and before he could turn further, she rose up and pressed her mouth against his cheek. Rough stubble stung her lips as she felt the pressure of his face leaning back against hers. A shaky exhale blew through her hair, and Abby heard the bag and cloak fall to the ground as seconds later, Sirius' arms wrapped around her tightly.   
  
Abby continued to stare for a long while after the dog had disappeared into the inky blackness. "God speed, Padfoot," she murmured to the night, before stepping back inside and shutting the cottage door.   
  
**THE END**   
  
_A/N: To begin with, I must state that I DID NOT make up the woof pun. That's an actual weaving term, and crazily enough, I didn't even discover it until after I'd started writing the story.   
  
Also, while there was a dearth of kissing and other romantic resolution in the story, I ask that you don't give up hope for these two. Read the stories that follow! (hint, hint)   
  
Dumbledore's use of "Oh, tosh!" was inspired by **soupytwist**, who was the greatest British beta I could have ever asked for.   
  
Again, I owe a huge amount of thanks to anyone who has ever beta-read, advised on, or reviewed this endeavor, especially the women of the **SQ Workshop**, who deserve Honeydukes chocolate and Gladrags gift cheques for their troubles. You've all made it so much better than it otherwise would have been!   
  
And now, as I didn't want to disrupt the ending, here is the **Epilogue**, which takes place four weeks later:_   
  
"You're tearing apart my kitchen, man! What in Merlin's name are you trying to do?"   
  
"Just shut up, Moony, and show me where you keep the spices." 


End file.
